


Sifters

by SJtrinity



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Canon Era, Curses, Fairy Tale AU - The Six Swans, Family, Instant Connections, M/M, Missed Connections, Witches, except there are only five swans in this one, same OC's from my last story because I got attached to them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:47:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 92,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26905378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SJtrinity/pseuds/SJtrinity
Summary: He hadn't trusted the woman, not from the very first, but then, none of them had except for his father. And that had been strange enough because his father, for all his love of people, was not the sort of man who welcomed strangers easily into his home, especially someone claiming to have known Joe's oma. Not that his father would ever say that; he didn't like to draw lines between people, but the lines were there, whether or not he chose to acknowledge them. There were Jews, and there were Gentiles. There were Catholics and Protestants. There were humans, and there were the Liebgotts.
Relationships: Joseph Liebgott/David Kenyon Webster
Comments: 18
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm calling this a Six Swans AU, but it's probably more accurate to call it a Daughter of the Forest AU, which I read when I was a kid, and considered for many years to be the height of romance.

_Of course_ , Joe thought, as he tumbled through the door and into the sea. _Of course, because when a guy opens a door and thinks, 'someplace far away, someplace safe,' where the fuck else would he end up?_ Then the water closed in over his head, and he clutched his haversack with one arm and threw the other one out wide, like maybe someone would grab on to it and get him the hell out of this situation, and then the world went green, thick and cold. The salt burned along his neck, his hands; he flailed one-armed against his own sinking weight. He kicked off his shoes, would have tried to shrug out of his jacket too, but then he would have to let go of the bag, and that wasn't happening. And fuck, he scarcely knew how to swim, what difference would it make, sinking now or in a couple of hours when he ran out of strength? _Fuck you_ , he thought savagely at that voice, that small voice edging up behind him like a shivering breath on the back of his neck. _I'm not done_. So he kicked and struggled, and the water and his own weight pulled against him, but he eventually broke the surface and sucked in a heaving, defiant breath. He went back under immediately, floundered, found the air once more. He tried to blink the stinging water from his eyes, tried to look around.  
"Hey!" A call from behind had him spinning, or attempting to spin, and slipping beneath the surface again. When he popped back up, he managed to make out through filmed vision the shape of a boat, a man standing in the center of it and waving his arms. "This way!" The man shouted. "Swim this way!"  
_No shit, jackass_ , Joe thought, kicking out towards him. _What else am I gonna do, wait on a fucking dolphin?_ Somewhere deep in his chest there was rabid relief, a gasping, clawing relief that he wasn't going to die, not yet, but he ignored that, focused on beating his way through the water.  
The boat wasn't that far off, but Joe quickly realized that what might seem like not much of a distance on land was a vast and impossible space when a person was trying to churn their way through rough water, bogged down by their clothing and their possessions. As much as he struggled, he couldn't seem to get any nearer to it. The man kept shouting shit to him, encouragement or advice, but Joe wasn't listening, all his attention caught up in trying to keep his head above water. But God, he couldn't do it, he couldn't keep it up anymore. He was too tired, he had been tired for years. _Do something_ , Joe thought at the man, turned away now, grabbing something from inside the boat. _You stupid, useless_ \- he sank below the water again, and gave up on the idiot.   
He still tried to swim forward, because he couldn't die now, couldn't travel to the halls of his people and look into his mother's face and tell her that he had given in and sunk to the bottom of the ocean and left them to their fate. But he could feel it slipping away from him, the heart hammering adrenaline that had pushed him this far, the anger that had kept him struggling forward. He wasn't going to make it like this, and he was just considering dropping his bag, even though it meant he would have to start over and fuck, he'd had setbacks before but nothing like this, and then a hand clamped down around his wrist, an arm was around his waist, and Joe was being hauled back up, was sucking in a ragged breath.  
"Hold on." He had the impression of dark hair, black with water, and pale eyes, and then the man tried to adjust his grip on Joe and he almost went back under. "Would you hold on to me?" He bit out, his arm tightening. "Let go of that, you'll drown us both."  
_Like hell I will_ , Joe thought, but he couldn't say it, so he snarled silently into the man's face instead, even as he clutched on to him with his free arm, his hand scrabbling for purchase along his shoulders.  
"God," the man said, pulling back from whatever he had seen on Joe's face. But he didn't let go, just helped Joe wrap his arm more securely around his neck, then started half swimming, half pulling them both back towards the boat. He had tied a rope around his waist, Joe realized, and was using it to help them along. Joe knew he should probably be doing something useful, kicking his feet maybe, or trying to get both arms around the guy so he could let go of him and focus on getting them to the boat, but he just kept his death grip on the haversack and the man's neck and sucked in breath after heaving breath. The peace, relative as it was, only lasted for a moment, and then, "Oh," the man said, his voice an awed shake. He was looking to the side; Joe followed his gaze just in time to see something dark and jutting cut along the surface of the water, then slide seamlessly down and away. Joe almost shouted then, almost forgot everything and yelled, _go, go, move it!_ But he caught himself, something from his chest reaching up into his throat to stop the words. "We have to get to the fucking boat," the man said, sounding eerily calm. He let go of Joe and started pulling them hand over hand along the rope, and Joe held on to his shoulder and kicked furiously, livid with rage and fear at the thought of his foot making contact with something.  
They reached the boat, and Joe pulled himself over the side, aided by two hands along his thigh and his ribs, then turned around to help the man up after him. Not that he was much help, he was shaking so damn bad. Once they were both safely in, Joe crumpled down against the bottom of the boat, but the man spun instantly back to the side, peering over the edge.   
"There it is," he said, openly amazed. _Get away from there, you idiot_ , Joe thought, but he was too busy silently freaking out to get up and jerk him back, so instead he just kept a wary eye on him while he checked through his bag with trembling hands. It was all still there, thank fucking Jesus. "What a hell of a way to die," the man said in a strange sing-song, and Joe threw an incredulous glance at his back, and the man turned his head and looked at him. Joe froze, for just a sliver of a breath, caught in an unexpected color. "Just when you think you've imagined the worst of them," the man said, still breathing hard, but in a full-chested, comfortable sort of way. "You know?" Joe didn't know what the fuck he was talking about; he refastened the haversack and tilted his chin questioningly out towards the water. _Is it gone?_  
"Oh, I'm sure it's still nearby," the man answered, easily interpreting his gesture. "Blood in the water." He frowned suddenly, and shifted over to crouch beside Joe. "This must be what caught its attention," he said, reaching out and touching Joe's neck, and it hurt, and then Joe remembered how she had cut him, and he jerked away and slapped a hard hand down along the side of his throat, felt the blood pool up against his palm. "Let me see," the man said, pulling on Joe's arm with an inexorable hand. Joe wanted to resist, wanted to hit him, but sudden woozy exhaustion had slammed into him with the force of a freight train, and then his stomach heaved and he turned his face to the side and vomited, biting back a wretched groan. "It's alright," the man said, his voice going stilted, even as it pitched lower, like he was trying to convince them both that everything was fine. "Just lay back, let me have a look." Like fuck was he going to collapse now, Joe thought, as he collapsed, the man catching him by the arm and easing him down. "What happened?" He asked, tilting Joe's head to the side to get a better look at his neck. "This looks like." He stopped, glancing at Joe, coolly assessing. "I'm David," he said, apropos of nothing. "What's your name?"  
Joe passed out.

* * *

  
He hadn't trusted the woman, not from the very first, but then, none of them had except for his father. And that had been strange enough because his father, for all his love of people, was not the sort of man who welcomed strangers easily into his home, especially someone claiming to have known Joe's oma. Not that his father would ever say that; he didn't like to draw lines between people, but the lines were there, whether or not he chose to acknowledge them. There were Jews, and there were Gentiles. There were Catholics and Protestants. There were humans, and there were the Liebgotts.   
Not that they weren't human. They were just like everyone else, just from an Old Family. An ancient Family, Joe's oma always said. She claimed there were other Families like theirs, but Joe had never known them, and neither had his old man. And it wasn't like they were living any kind of special, magical life, no, they scraped by just like everyone else. Being from one of the Old Families didn't mean a damn thing, except that his oma seemed to know an endless litany of stories, each one more unbelievable and horrifying than the last, which she told her grandchildren with grim relish, and that Joe sometimes got a twitchy feeling along the top of his spine that usually meant something bad was about to happen. Once, he had been standing in the kitchen helping his ma with dinner, and he felt it, a finger dancing along the nape of his neck. He turned around to see Klara, six at the time and way too fucking precocious for her age, standing in front of the open door, getting ready to step out onto a swinging metal girder, gray water far below. He shouted wordlessly and leapt across the room, jerking her back by the collar of her dress and slamming the door shut.  
"What the hell are you doing?" He yelled, giving her a shake.  
"Joseph!" His mother said, just now turning around. Klara was already bawling.  
"She almost killed herself, Ma," Joe said, not looking away from Klara, because his mother couldn't see it, of course, she was only human. "What did I tell you about opening those doors?" He said to Klara.  
"I wanted to see the bridge," she wailed, pulling away from him and running to their mother.   
"The bridge?" She echoed, mystified, reaching a soothing hand down and running it along Klara's small shoulder.  
"Aw, Jesus." Of course she had wanted to see that fucking bridge, it was all she could talk about these days. Joe had taken her down to watch the day they started construction, Klara hanging on to his leg and shivering in her thin jacket, and she had asked about the bridge every day since, how was it coming along, how long until it was done? "Kid." He crossed the room to stand in front of her, waiting until she looked up at him with dark, liquid eyes. "You don't open those doors, okay? And you sure as hell don't go through them. They're not safe." Klara's lip jutted out, recalcitrant.  
"Listen to your brother," his mother said severely, looking suddenly shaken as she realized the enormity of the situation.   
"Okay," Klara said stonily, and Joe bent down and caught her up in a tight hug. She held herself like a tautly strung wire for a moment, then relented and wound her arms around his neck.  
"You scared me, you little monster," he muttered. "Don't do that again." Because that was the other part of coming from an Old Family, or from their particular family, at least. The doors.  
It would be more interesting, Joe supposed, if he wanted to be somewhere else. But where else would he go, besides where his family was? So mostly it was just a thing they could do. Sure, he and Al had jumped around some when they were kids, before it felt dangerous. Back then it had felt fun, sneaking into Al's room after everyone else was asleep, opening her closet door and stepping into a new place. A tiny village where the people gasped and pointed at them, yelled after them in a language they didn't know while they escaped, hooting with laughter, through a thatch covered door. Or into a huge, echoing room, that Al still insisted had been a castle, but Joe was fairly sure had been a temple of some sort, with pink light glowing in from colored windows so high above their heads that they'd had to stand back to back and lean against each other to look up and see them properly, and the door they took back home had been so heavy that they'd had to work together to shove it open. One time they had stepped into a ballroom, and hid beneath a table and watched the spinning dancers until they fell asleep. When they woke up and snuck home, they found their oma waiting for them, and had received the thrashing of their lives as punishment. But then Jake and Gertie started wanting to come along, and they were too little, too innocent and trusting, and Joe started to see the whole thing from a different angle. Soon enough he found himself lying awake at night, not so he and Al could sneak away, but so he could catch the younger ones in the act, close the door firmly and corral them back into their beds. It was a cruel world, and seemed to be getting worse by the day.  
By the time the witch showed up, they were all old enough to know better, and Joe didn't worry about it much anymore. There were other, more pressing things to worry about, after all. Like how they were going to pay the bills, how they were going to manage to keep the shop open, and pay for Jake's college, and now Judy wanted to take a class in typing but they were strapped, and most importantly, how were they going to keep on taking care of their mother? She was sick, and the doctor had told them there was nothing to be done but keep her comfortable, but as it was they couldn't even manage that. Joe had been taking hard stock of his options over the last couple of weeks, and had made a decision that he knew the family wouldn't like, but that was just too damn bad. So he was already in a foul mood when he got home that night, tired from driving all around the city, and from the extra hour he had spent at the recruitment office, answering questions and filling out forms, and when he walked into the kitchen and came face to face with a stranger, he hadn't had the mental wherewithal to say anything else but,   
"Who are you?"  
She smiled at him, and Jesus, she was a looker. Joe had next to zero interest in women, but he still felt something like an electric current zip through him when those cool green eyes met his, when her full, perfectly shaped lips turned up, something secret in their corners, something inviting.   
"Uh," he said.  
"Joseph." His head whipped around, noticing for the first time that his father was sitting at the table with his sisters. "This is Adele Graf. A friend of your oma's."  
"Yeah?" He didn't see how. Sure, she looked like she might be a little older than Joe, but she was at least a decade younger than his father, and so how, exactly, could she be a friend of his oma's, who had been dead for close to ten years? "Just now getting around to paying your condolences?"  
"Now, Joseph-" his father began, but the woman, Adele, cut him off with a light, tinkling laugh.  
_"You're suspicious, naturally,"_ she said, in the same easy German that his oma had used, gesturing Joe towards his own damn table with a graceful movement of her hand. _"I imagine this is the first time that any of you have met someone from another Family."_ Her tongue darted out, a quick slide along her bottom lip. _"Looks can be deceiving. I assure you, I knew your grandmother quite well."_  
Joe glanced at his sisters. Klara and Gertie were watching the woman as if entranced, and fuck, he couldn't blame them. She was beautiful, and bright, standing like a queen in the middle of their cramped, shabby kitchen, a falcon among pigeons. But Judy looked scared, her gaze darting back and forth between their father and her clasped hands, and Al was watching Joe. They shared a quick, speaking glance, as he walked over to the table to join them. Theo, Al's six-month old son, was sleeping on her shoulder. "Where's Max and Kay?" He asked her.  
"At home," she replied. "Jake's with them. Trying to study."  
"And ma?"  
_"Sleeping,"_ Adele said, drifting over to the table and taking a seat as if she belonged there. _"The poor woman, she was so tired."_  
"It was amazing, Joe," Klara said. "She sang to her, and ma fell right asleep, and she looked." Her voice suddenly broke, and she stopped, turning her head and dropping her face down against Judy's shoulder.  
"She looked like she was actually resting," Judy finished for her, putting her arm around Klara.  
Joe looked at Adele. She smiled at him again, and yeah, he could believe that she was from an Old Family, she sure as hell fit the image of it better than any of them ever had. She was perfect. Way too perfect to be trusted.   
"Thanks," he said gruffly, propping his elbows on the table. _"If my grandmother were here, she would thank you too."_ He watched her closely as he spoke, but her serene expression didn't shift in the slightest. Joe glanced around the table. "It's getting late, huh?" He stood up, gestured towards the door as politely as he could manage. "I'll see you back to wherever you're staying."  
_"Oh, no, that won't be necessary,"_ Adele said, looking meaningfully at Joe's father.  
"Ms. Graf will be staying with us," his father said, smiling at Joe as if all their prayers had been answered. Except Joe didn't go in for prayers, or for miracles.  
"No," he said, hard. His father blinked at him, like he was half-asleep or something. Joe felt a scowl starting on his face, turned it on Adele. "That's real nice of you, but we're fine."  
_"Fine,"_ she murmured, not looking at him, looking at his father instead. _"And yet your father tells me that you have been working yourself to the very bone, and that dear Gertie here had to give up her job in order to look after your mother."_ She looked back at Joe. _"He tells me you are suffering, and running out of options. Surely you will allow me to help in whatever small way I can. Anything for the child and grandchildren of an old friend."_ Joe glared at his old man, who appeared to be caught somewhere between confusion and abashment.  
"She is finally comfortable, Joseph," he said gravely. "It is more than she has had in months." He looked around the table. "With Ms. Graf's aid, Gertie can return to work, and we can afford Judy's classes." He sighed, and settled his hands neatly in front of him, in that way he had, as if he could will them all to calm rationality by demonstration of what it looked like. "But we are a family, and must make decisions as one." Joe glanced towards the stairs, leading to the room where his mother was sleeping, peacefully, according to his father and sisters. He looked at Judy and Gertie, who stared back at him, wide-eyed and overwhelmed, then at Al, who tilted her head minutely, her hand settled along Theo's small back, her face a mask.  
"Beautiful," he sneered.  
Late that night, Joe opened his closet door and stepped into Gertie's bedroom. She'd had the room to herself for the past three years, ever since Al had married and moved out, and she must have been expecting him, because she was sitting up in bed with her coat thrown on over her nightgown.  
"We ain't going that far," he whispered, tugging on her lapel. She pushed his hand away with a scowl.  
"Shut up," she said, clambering out of bed and following him back to the closet. "What about Judy and Klara?"  
"No, let them sleep." Klara was too young, and he didn't feel comfortable bringing Judy along and leaving his littlest sister all alone in the house with just their parents and that woman. "Al's house, okay? You go first." They could travel together, but that was dependent on the person following being able to clear their head of their own thoughts about where they might end up, so that the leader could pull them along. It was less risky to go separately. Gertie stepped through the door, and Joe closed it, counted to three, then followed after, nearly tripping over her as he stepped through the door leading from the kitchen to the dining room at Al's place.  
"Jesus," he snapped, catching himself on the door frame. "Move it, would ya?"  
"Quiet," Al hissed, poking her head through the opposite doorway. "Max and the kids are sleeping." She gestured them into the living room, where she and Jake had apparently been waiting. Gertie sank down onto the sofa beside her, and Al wrapped an arm around her waist. Jake was sitting in the armchair, his face sober, his hands set carefully along the arms. Out of the six of them, he had always been the most like their old man. Joe leaned against the side of the chair and ruffled his hair.  
"So," Jake said, shrugging him off absently, "what do we do?"  
"Nothing," Joe answered. He'd been thinking it over ever since he left the kitchen, giving a terse, half-assed excuse for not wanting any dinner. He'd gone upstairs and looked in on his mother. They hadn't exaggerated: she was sleeping deeply, her brow unlined and clear of pain, her breath slow and even. Joe had wanted to go into the room and sit with her, touch her, but he didn't want to risk waking her up, not when she was sleeping like that.   
"What do you mean, nothing?" Gertie said. "There's a literal witch sleeping in our house."  
"Witches aren't real, Gert," Jake sighed.  
"Yeah, and neither are people like us," Gertie said with a snort. "Of course witches are real. Didn't you listen to any of oma's stories?"  
"Right," Al said sarcastically. "Like the one about the guy in the woods who kills children with a single touch. Or the old lady with the funny foot who goes around slitting the stomachs of lazy kids who don't finish their spinning. That one was her favorite, right, Joe?"  
"It was a swan foot," Joe said, tapping his thumb against his lip. "They were just stories, Gert."  
"You saw pop. He was looking at her like, like." Gertie stopped, unwilling to say it.  
"Like he was in love," Al said.  
"Like he was _bewitched_ ," Gertie corrected tersely.  
"We'll just have to make her leave," Jake said, trying to steer them away from Gertie's wild tangent. "Pop won't go against us if we all tell him we want her out."  
"Ma's dying," Joe said harshly. Jake and Gertie flinched, and he forced himself to soften his tone. "We all know it. The doc said the only thing we can do is try to keep her comfortable, and that witch is the only one who's managed it so far."  
"Besides, if she is dangerous, the last thing we want to do is piss her off by throwing her out on her ear," Al said.  
"But what does she want?" Gertie asked. "Oma didn't have any damn friends." They all laughed darkly at that. She had loved them fiercely, and they had loved her in return, but their grandmother had always been a difficult old bitch, and that was putting it gently.   
"Not like she's gonna tell us," Joe said. "All we can do is keep an eye on her. Keep one hand on the door."  
"If things start getting weird, you guys will pop over here, and we'll figure it out," Al said in agreement.  
"How are you planning on explaining it to Max, if it comes to that?" Jake asked gently, and Al frowned. She had been adamant from the beginning that she didn't want Max knowing about their Family, about what they could do. It didn't make any sense to Joe. How was she planning on explaining or hiding it, when Kay and Theo grew up a little and started opening doors? But Al had always been too stubborn for her own good.  
"Don't go making more problems then we already have," he said, giving Al a break. "Let's just take them a dozen at a time, huh?" Al nodded grimly.  
"The fact is, we don't have anyone we can go to for answers," she said. "Oma was the only one who might have known, and she's gone."  
"Just have to stick together," Jake said. "Like we have been."  
"Yeah." Joe cleared his throat. "About that." They turned to look at him, and he picked guiltily at a loose thread along the top of the chair. "I meant to tell everyone at dinner, but, you know. The witch." He smirked at Gertie, who didn't smile back, only stared at him with growing dread. "I stopped by the recruitment office today. I'm supposed to show up tomorrow for my physical."  
"Joe, no," Gertie gasped.  
"Tell them you changed your mind," Al said flatly.  
"I can't, Al," Joe snapped. "Anyway, we need the money."  
"You're gonna leave us alone with that woman?" Gertie said, and the fear and shock in her voice was like a knife.  
"You're not fucking alone," he growled. "You got each other." He pushed away from the chair, stalked across the room. "And you'll write me regularly, and if things start to go sideways, you'll let me know, and I'll come back."  
"Pretty sure they call that desertion," Jake said dryly.  
"So what's this called?" Gertie said furiously, gesturing at Joe. "I can't believe this."   
"You can't just walk away from it, Joe," Al said. "Not once you're in."  
"Well, I am in, and I don't plan on walking away from anything," Joe retorted. "And that includes you guys." They just stared at him, and he scowled angrily. "What, you don't believe me? You think I wouldn't come?"  
"No," Jake answered carefully. "But if you did." He stopped, threw Al an uneasy glance. "Desertion is punishable by death."  
"Yeah, well, they'd have to find me first." He shot them a cocky grin, and Gertie buried her face in her hands and began to cry. "Jesus Christ. Gert, come on." Joe paced over to the couch, crouched down in front of her and put a hand on her knee.  
"This isn't a joke, Joe," she said, her voice all thin threads. "You could die."  
"I'm not gonna die," he said firmly, even though he knew it was a fucking ridiculous thing to say. Of course he could die, people were dying in droves. "I'm gonna be fine. Gertie. Hey." He squeezed her knee, and she responded by leaning forward until her shoulder was pressed against his. Joe looked to Al for help, but fuck, Al looked close to tears too, and that rattled him. "I'm gonna be fine," he said again. "We all are." The back of his neck tingled, but he scrubbed a hard hand along it, and when the feeling went away he assured himself it had been nothing.  
So really, he didn't have anyone to blame but himself for all the shit that followed.


	2. Chapter 2

Joe woke again when the black swung around him, tilting him up and up until he started to fall forward into it, only to be caught around the waist and held upright by something warm and solid. "Careful," a voice said, somewhere far away. "You're alright." There was an arm around him, Joe realized, and his own arm was slung over someone's shoulders. He jerked away, awareness and memory coming back to him like water released from a floodgate, and nearly cursed when his neck sang out in pain. "Fuck," that voice said again, and then Joe was falling, and so was his companion, and Joe landed on something hard and unyielding, his hip cracking down against a sharp edge. He curled in around the new pain, gritting his teeth. "Oh, God," he heard, the arm around his waist loosening. His eyes were open, but for some reason he could barely see, everything reduced to swirling gradients of gray. He rolled over to his back, and that helped a little, he could see well enough now to need to squint and turn away from the sunlight. Then a face popped into view. The man from the boat.  
"This might be easier if you passed out again," he said dryly. Joe stared at him, using his face to force his eyes to focus and stop trying to roll back in his head. "We're going to stand back up now, alright? You're going to be fine."  
_Don't talk to me like a fucking child_ , Joe thought, glaring. The man frowned at him, his eyes puzzled, then huffed a soundless laugh.   
"I'm not doing very well at this, am I? Thank God they never picked me for a medic. Here we go." He took Joe by his shoulders and helped him to his feet, his arm going back around his waist. They were on a dock, Joe realized, the boat tied in place beside them. He glanced around, trying to figure out where he had ended up, but nothing looked familiar. It was a small wharf, and the buildings he could see in the distance were simple and single-storied, with no helpful identifying signs with a town name emblazoned across them to tell him where he was. It sure as hell wasn't San Francisco. "I have a car not far from here," the man said. "Let's get you to someone who can actually do something about your neck." Joe lifted his hand towards his throat, and the man caught it in his own. "Sorry," he said, letting go. "Don't touch it. I tried to wrap it, but it's still bleeding." Joe scowled in answer, and lifted his hand again, feeling carefully over the spot. There was a cloth wound around his neck, soggy with blood. He had to get out of here. His stomach lurched sideways as he suddenly remembered his bag, _where the fuck was his bag?_ He tried to turn back to the boat, but only ended up stumbling, the man hauling him back upright before he could collapse to his knees.   
"Would you stop thrashing around?" He said tightly. "Calm down." Joe gestured towards the boat, and the man's gaze sharpened, his head pulling back so he could stare intently at him. "Are you? Can you not speak?"  
_You're real fucking clever_. He pointed again, and this time the man turned his head. "The boat? Oh, your bag?" Joe nodded, and the man sighed. "Alright, hold on." He let go of him slowly, gingerly, as if afraid that he might topple without the support, then retrieved the haversack. Joe held out his hand expectantly. The man stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head disbelievingly and gave it to him. "That thing almost got us killed, you know. Hope it was worth it."  
Joe wasn't much for shows of gratitude, and anyways it wasn't like he could say thank you, and more importantly he had to get moving, find his bearings and a place to lay low. So he just held the man's gaze, nodded to him. _You don't know what you've done, you won't ever know what it meant_. The man stared at him, his brow pinching in confusion, his mouth parting like he wanted to say something else. Joe shouldered his haversack and turned away.  
"What?" Quick footsteps behind him, a hand on his arm. Joe spun around and shoved him, pushing forward to sneer into his face. _Back off_. The man looked startled, but didn't pull away. "You need to go to a hospital," he said firmly. "I can't let you just walk off." _Let me, you pretentious shit?_ Joe knocked his hand to the side when he tried to lift it towards him, and the man raised them both in a placating gesture. "Alright, let's just. Just hold on a minute. That cut on your neck is going to need stitches. There's a hospital down the road, we can be there in five minutes. If you're concerned about money, don't be." He lowered his hands, crossing them along his chest in a strangely defensive gesture. "I have more money and time than I know what to do with, and I can't very well snatch a man from the jaws of a shark, only to have him bleed out on land a few hours later." He gave Joe a slow, hesitant smile, and Joe had to swallow a sudden sharp urge to laugh. It surprised him, the feeling so long suppressed that he hadn't recognized it until it was almost too late. It hadn't even been funny; maybe he was losing more blood than he realized. He took a couple steps back and looked the guy over, considering. He didn't want to go to a hospital, but he also knew that he would probably botch any attempt to stitch himself up, especially with the state his hands were in. And the guy seemed decent enough, and Joe couldn't afford to turn his nose up to charity. If the situation started to go against him, he would just duck through a door. He shrugged his shoulder. _Okay, fine_.  
"Glad that you agree," the man drawled, his mouth still curled. Joe got the feeling he found something amusing about their exchange, and Jesus, he wished he could talk, because it would be so satisfying to be able to tell the guy to wipe that fucking smirk off his face. So he glared instead, and the man must have picked up on some of it, because he rubbed his jaw ruefully and looked away. "Can you walk on your own?" He asked.  
_Are you fucking kidding me?_ Joe turned away in answer, walking along the dock with the man behind him, and maybe he felt a little light-headed, maybe the world hadn't gotten back its full amount of color, but he was _fine_ , he didn't need to be helped along.   
"The car's right over there," the man said, gesturing over Joe's shoulder as they left the dock and approached the open unmarked lot that served as parking. Joe followed the motion of his hand, felt his brow shoot up. There were a couple of old trucks, a run-down Buick that had definitely seen better days, and then there was the Cadillac, gleaming black and muscular in the middle of the lot. Joe wanted to whistle; he shot the guy an incredulous look. _Really?_  
"It's my family's," he said with a wooden smile, stepping around Joe to open the driver-side door and shutting it after him without another word. Weird. Joe shrugged to himself and climbed into the passenger seat. Wasn't his business if some too-rich good Samaritan was unhappy with how damn easy his life was. They drove off, and Joe sagged back in his seat, trying to look nonchalant instead of nearly giddy with weakness, staring out the window for some indication of where the hell he was. The road they were on followed along the edge of the ocean, and that was his first clue that something was off. He wasn't sure how long he had been passed out on the boat, but the sun looked like it was starting to shift lower in the sky, but if that was the case it was heading to the wrong spot, because the ocean was _that_ way.  
"What is it?" Joe turned to look at the guy, gestured towards his wrist. "Hmm? The time?" He glanced at his watch. "It's almost four."   
Jesus Christ, he was on the opposite coast. Joe ran a hand through his hair, stiff with salt-water, enough to make his skin sting. He turned away from the man's curious look, wrapping his arm more tightly around the haversack. Maybe he should be surprised he hadn't gone farther; after all, he hadn't had much in the way of coherent thought when he'd ripped the door open and jumped through. Someplace safe, what bullshit. What had he been thinking? No place was safe; he'd learned that the hard way.

* * *

  
The problem with paratrooper training wasn't the mountain that they had to run up multiple times a day, or the terrible food, or how they had to stand in formation for hours for over-exacting inspections. It wasn't their fucking awful lieutenant: what kind of viciously petty bastard actually enjoyed making his men miserable? It wasn't the fact that the place was so poorly laid out that they couldn't even do jump training there, and had to march thirty miles for rifle training. The problem with paratrooper training was the other paratroopers.  
They were just fucking kids. Most of them were Judy's age, and Joe suspected more than a few of being even younger than that. Their balls had barely dropped, and here they were training to go to war. Joe knew he should stop thinking of them as little brothers that needed looking out for. A handful of years wouldn't mean shit in combat; they would all be on even footing soon enough. But fuck, even the officers were younger than him, and Joe wouldn't trust most of them with a pinned grenade, much less the care of the company. Not that he envied them their position, stuck kissing Sobel's lily-white ass. He figured the best way to handle it was by keeping on like he was, sticking with it, the company and the guys.  
The whole thing would be easier if he could tell himself that shit was going alright back home, but he knew it wasn't, no matter how bland and topical the letters he received were. Joe got a lot of correspondence, a constant source of entertainment to the guys.  
"Liebgott, you got another letter." Joe reached for it, but Guarnere leaned over from his bunk and snagged it out of Lipton's hand.  
"Hey, what sister is it gonna be this time?" he said, cackling, then frowned and pulled his head back as he read the name on the envelope. "The hell? Jacob?"  
"What, Bill, you weren't aware a brother was a possibility?" Lip said mildly as he walked out the door.  
"Gimme that." Joe snatched the letter back.  
"Aw, don't look so disappointed, Gonorrhea," Tab shouted from across the room. "Here, Penkala's got a letter over here from his girl."  
"Yeah?" Guarnere said, perking up, and Joe took advantage of the distraction to tear open Jake's letter and give it a quick once-over. He stumbled over a word, and everything stuttered, his heart dropping, the sounds of the room going in and out like a weak radio signal. He went back to the top, read the whole thing. She died in her sleep, Jake said. It was peaceful, and they should be thankful for that. Judy and Klara are taking it hard, but Pop is holding up alright. _Yeah, I'll just bet he is_ , Joe thought grimly. He figured that was the closest Jake was going to get to admitting that their old man still wasn't acting right. All their letters were like that, carefully worded so as not to worry him. He'd made them promise they would let him know if they needed him to come home, but fuck, each letter he got read like stiffly recited lines. _I'm enjoying school, I'm thinking about cutting my hair_. They hardly mentioned the witch, and when they did it was just, _Ms. Graf has been helping Klara and I brush up on our German, Adele asked me today if I knew how to weave, and looked put out when I told her I didn't_. They were hiding shit from him, he knew it.  
"Everything okay, Liebgott?" Joe looked up, saw that Grant was watching him with a concerned expression. His mother was dead, he remembered with a sudden, squeezing pain. How had he forgotten, for even a moment?  
"I gotta see Sobel," he said, standing up, the letter crumpling beneath his curling hand. He had to get home.  
But Sobel turned his request down flat.  
"I'm sorry to hear it," he said, dark, assessing eyes. "But you said yourself, she was ill when you enlisted."  
"Yes, Sir," Joe said, trying to master his eyelid, which was wanting to twitch.  
"So you anticipated this, but chose to join the Paratroopers despite that. It's very commendable." He was watching Joe like he was hoping he might get to watch him break. "The war won't stop for your personal affairs, and neither will your training. You still want to kill Germans, Private?"  
"Yes, Sir." _Klara, Judy, Gertie_. Lieutenant Winters, standing in the corner of the room, was watching their exchange with his typical sharp detachment.  
"Then I suggest you return to your barracks. Dismissed."  
"Sir." _Jake, Al_. He saluted and turned to the door. All he had to do when he laid his hand to the knob was picture their faces, and he could be there, back with them. But he let it fall open to the now familiar sight of the camp, dull browns and greens and neatly peaked tent tops. He stood for a moment outside the door, trying to settle his head. She was already gone, his coming home wouldn't change that, and Sobel, damn him, had been right. Joe had known it was coming. He was here for them, it was what his ma would have wanted. But that was a fucking lie.  
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he hissed under his breath, then forced himself to move. He hadn't gotten far when someone called his name.  
"Private Liebgott." Winters had left the building, was crossing the short space between them. Joe turned to face him, pulling his body out of the slouch it had started to fall into. "Go over to headquarters, tell them I gave you leave to use the phone," he said laconically.  
"Sir?"  
"Call your family, Joe." Winters was a hard one to peg down, expressionless except for something around his eyes, but Joe knew him well enough by now to trust that it wasn't a trick. But it didn't change anything.  
"They don't have a phone, Sir," he said around the growing knot of fury in his chest. Winters' expression didn't alter in the slightest.  
"I see. In that case, you're relieved from mess duty this afternoon. Head over to the officer's quarters. Everyone's out. Write whatever letters you need to and leave them in my footlocker, and I'll see that they get mailed out immediately."  
Why was it that Sobel's flat dismissal had left him numb, but a little bit of human fucking decency woke up something angry inside him, sharp gnashing teeth? Joe opened his mouth, forcing himself to thank Winters for the kindness, because it was that and more, the guy was putting himself on the line too, but Winters just gave him a tight little nod and turned away, walking in the opposite direction with his long, ground-eating stride.  
If he was going to duck out, now was the best opportunity he was going to get. Winters had essentially given him the next few hours to spend in relative privacy. He could be in Frisco, could see and talk to his family, and back again with time to spare. But if he disappeared and someone came looking for him, it would be over. He couldn't risk it, not yet. So he spent the afternoon writing a long letter to Al, trying to put everything into it that he might have said had he been there with them. _Ask Judy if she remembers the time she put a beetle down ma's dress and she screamed the house down. Remember when we moved to Oakland and ma got emotional unpacking the kitchen and told pop she wasn't ever moving again? If we go further west, we will be in the water, or China, she said._ He wrote until his hand cramped, and returned to barracks just in time to find out that Sobel had ordered another run up Currahee.  
The training was exhausting. Back home, Joe tended to lay awake in bed for a bit, turning the day over in his head and making plans for the next one. Now, he was out before his body fully hit the bunk. He didn't miss it, in theory. After all, it wasn't like he needed to work out his plans for the next day, or the next month. It was all decided for him, and it was weird, how strangely relieving that was. Joe could see how some guys might prefer the army and its straightforward dangers to the more capricious uncertainties of civilian life. But every time he read a new letter from home he got that fucking itch along the back of his neck, a crawling feeling that things weren't right. But he barely had time to read his letters, let alone think them over.   
It was what they weren't saying. Klara wrote about school, Jake and Judy both wrote about their classes. Gertie, who usually wouldn't shut the hell up, sent him terse one-pager city updates that might as well have come from a newspaper. They barely mentioned pop, or the witch. Joe hadn't been holding his breath waiting on a letter telling him that Adele had gone, but he had held out hope. Ma was dead, so why would she stick around? But that letter never came.   
If all their goddamn passes would stop getting revoked by fucking Sobel, he could go check in on them. He could go into town with the rest of the guys, make some excuse about meeting a girl or whatever, duck through a door and not be missed the rest of the night. But nothing seemed to get the asshole's rocks off quite like revoking passes. So Joe stayed where he was, and if he only got that shiver along his spine each time he reached the end of another useless, empty letter, what the fuck did that mean, anyway?   
In the end, the letter that decided it for him didn't even come from one of his siblings.  
"Mail, boys," Lipton said, appearing in the doorway. "Gordon, Tipper, Liebgott." Joe had been about to pass out, but he got up when he heard his name and started shoving his way through the guys, who were all gathering around the door and the window.  
"Hey, Lip, what's going on out there?" Gordon asked.  
"New recruits," Lipton answered without looking. "Fresh off the bus. Sobel's putting them through their first inspection."  
"Christ," Muck said. "Get into your gear now, boys, we're running up Currahee tonight."  
"Three miles up, three miles down," a handful chanted halfheartedly.  
"Beautiful," Joe muttered, leaning out around Lipton to take a look. The word around camp was that they were headed for jump training in a few months, which meant that Sobel would be pushing this last bunch hard, which meant that he would be pushing them all hard. He took his letter and returned to his bunk, grunting in surprise when he saw that it was from Max.   
It started out normal enough. Max wrote about his job at the dry-docks and about how Kay and Theo were getting on. Joe hadn't cared much for Max when he first started sniffing around Al; no one was good enough for his sister, and especially not this quiet, weirdly sweaty, _boring_ guy who stared all moon-eyed at Al and stammered every time Joe talked to him. Joe told Al to lose him, but she had always been pig-headed, and she never bothered to listen much to him anyways, and so Max stayed in the picture. When they got married, Joe bared his teeth for the family photo, and muttered to Jake through his clenched smile that they were now brothers to the human equivalent of a glass of warm milk, and Jake had shot him a look and whispered back, "What's so bad about that?"  
Max grew on him eventually, especially when the kids came along and he proved to be a family man, the kind of husband who came straight home after work, the kind of guy who didn't let his dick get in the way of lending a hand around the house or comforting a crying baby. And it turned out, as Joe eased up on him, that the guy could actually speak in full sentences, and had a wickedly dry sense of humor that snuck out in conversation. And he loved Al, and made her happy, and so okay, maybe Al had known what she was doing.   
Joe had started to skim the letter; he loved Kay and Theo, but there was only so much a guy could read about the daily lives of a couple of toddlers, but his attention snapped back when he saw the witch's name.  
_We are all thinking of you, and missing you here at home, particularly Al I believe. You'll laugh, especially considering what a contrary bunch you Liebgotts are, but Al always took her cues from you when it came to handling the rest of the family, and without you here to point the way I'm afraid she's wandered into a bit of a quagmire regarding your father's friendship, for lack of a more polite term, with this Adele Graf. Maybe you can write her some words of encouragement, I think it would go a long way in helping her settle her mind. One day I came home and she told me that your brother and sisters were going to be staying with us for a while, and that they should be showing up any time now. A couple of hours went by and they still hadn't arrived, and she started to get real upset, and said she needed to go over there and check on them. I tried to convince her there was nothing to worry about, but she tore out of the house. I was just getting the kids settled into bed when she came back, calm as anything, and told me she talked things over with Ms. Graf, and maybe she had been too hasty before, and Jake and your sisters weren't going to be staying with us after all. "I'm surprised she's got a say in anything, the way you've been talking about her up 'til now," I said. "Families like ours are meant to be close," she said, and then she just went to bed. I swear Joe, I know she helped out with your mother, God rest her soul, but this Adele has turned your whole family on their heads._  
_I don't write any of this to burden you. I know you are facing challenges that make our day to day upheavals small in comparison. Life continues on, and rest assured that your brother and sisters are all bearing up well and taking care of each other as they always have. But they look forward to your letters, and talk about you often. Al reads the letter you sent her after your mother's death every day. Stubborn woman that she is, I think she would still welcome any advice that you may feel comfortable giving regarding this Adele Graf._  
Joe checked the date on the letter. It was over a week old now. It wasn't so much an itch along his neck as it was sharp nails, digging in around the bone. Jesus Christ, what the fuck was happening with his family? He stood up, cramming the letter into his pocket, moving towards the door.  
"What're you doing, Liebgott?" Someone asked, Joe didn't know who, he barely heard them, and it didn't matter anymore.  
"I'm walking," he replied, because he couldn't think of anything else to say. He should have gone home weeks ago, or when he first got news of his ma's death. He shouldn't have left them at all. He stepped outside and glanced around the camp, trying to decide which door was best, which one would draw the least amount of attention. The latrines, most likely. Joe made his way towards them, skirting around Sobel and the new recruits. The last thing he needed was to draw that asshole's attention, but then, that didn't really matter either. He would prefer to go without anyone noticing, but he was going either way. But Sobel didn't see him, too caught up in his tirade, and Joe reached the latrines without running into anyone. He put his hand on the knob, tried to settle his racing thoughts. _Home_ , he thought, and opened the door.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing the orderly said when Joe and his new pal approached the desk was not, "How can I help you?" or even, "Where's all that blood coming from?" No, the first thing he said as he looked up and watched them walk toward him was, "Where are your shoes?"   
"We were more concerned with the gaping neck wound," Joe's companion drawled, and the man looked vaguely guilty.   
"Let's get you in a room," he said, standing up and grabbing a clipboard, glancing pointedly around the waiting area as if embarrassed for Joe to be seen in all his soiled, bleeding glory by the small number of politely clothed and waiting people. They followed him through a door, down a hallway and through another door, into a small and brightly lit examining room. "Sit down," the man said brusquely. "Fill this out, and someone will be in shortly." He handed Joe the clipboard and walked out. Joe rolled his eyes at the orderly's back, then shared a sardonic look with his companion. _What else would you expect?_  
"I know," he answered, reading Joe's expression. "Well, as long as we get what we came for, right?" Joe snorted and turned his attention to the paperwork.  
He had lived under various false names, but never tried to get too clever with them, since that was a sure way to slip up and make someone suspicious. Fortunately for him, most people seemed to assume that being simple or uneducated went hand in hand with being a mute, so they never acted too surprised when he made like he could hardly read or write. This time, Joe wrote 'Lieb' in big, careful letters; having bad handwriting was one thing he didn't have to fake, what with his hands stiff and swollen like they were, and honestly his handwriting had always been shit, no matter how many times his teachers slapped the ruler down along the back of his fingers. He put the correct year for his date of birth, changed the month and day up, and left the rest of the paper blank, rubbing his knuckles to try and relieve the ache. The man came to stand beside him, looking down at the paper. His eyebrow went up, he looked over at Joe sharply.  
"Lieb? That's it?" Joe stared flatly back at him, and the man gestured at the clipboard. "Can't you read this?" He asked, sounding flatteringly surprised at the possibility that Joe couldn't. "I can help you fill it out, if you want." _Yeah, how do you think you'll manage that?_ The man's mouth curved up in another slow smile. "You're right, maybe we should just skip it." He looked back down at the paper. "Lieb. That's an interesting name. You know, in German it translates to something like 'sweet.'" He gave Joe an amused look. "Seems like a misnomer, but then, I don't know you very well yet."  
Yet? Joe noticed suddenly, with a sensation like a body being pressed against his own, that the guy was good-looking. He had a face right off a movie poster, blue-eyed and square-chinned, and a build to match. If it were five years earlier, and they were meeting under different circumstances, Joe would definitely have had something to say in answer to that. _I can be sweet for the right price_ , or _I'll teach you all the German you need to know. Wieder, bitte, mehr_. The guy was out of his league, but those kinds of details had never given Joe pause before, but he was so fucking run down these days, closed up in silence, thin and twisted, that even the thought of it left him exhausted, only the faintest echo of lust managing to cut through the rest. He looked away, hunching his shoulders.  
The door opened and a man walked in, a white coat that pronounced him a doctor, flat lips and clever eyes partially obscured behind wire-framed glasses. "Good afternoon," he said, looking Joe over as he approached, reaching for the clipboard with a practiced motion. He looked at the paper and frowned. "Mr. Lieb, is it?" Joe stared at him in answer, and the doctor turned to his companion. "I'm Dr. Redding."  
"David Webster," the man said, offering his hand, and Joe remembered all in a rush that he had told him his name, in the boat shortly before he had lost consciousness.   
"Ah," the doctor said, sounding happily surprised. "Kenyon? I play tennis with your father when he and your mother visit."  
"How nice," David said stiffly.  
"Let's have a look at your friend, shall we?" Redding turned back to Joe, more pleasant now than he had been a moment before. His hands lifted up, and Joe forced himself to not pull back, to turn his head to the side and sit rigidly still while the doctor unwound the cloth, probing with sure fingers at the cut on his neck. "Hmm." Redding removed his hand, shifting slightly so that he was looking him square in the face. "How did this happen?" He asked soberly. Joe glared at him, and then at David.  
"He, um. He can't speak," David said, sounding uncertain. Redding frowned again and felt along Joe's throat, his voice box.  
"Can you write?" He asked, watching him carefully. "Sign language?" His hands came up, curling into a short series of gestures. Jesus Christ, that was just his fucking luck. Joe forced himself to not eye the door, motioning angrily towards his neck instead.  
"I think he just wants you to stitch him up," David said helpfully.  
"So I infer," Redding replied, still watching Joe. He looked over at David. "Do you happen to know how he came by this injury?"  
"Uh. No." David glanced at Joe, looking guilty as hell. _What the fuck do you have to look guilty about_ , Joe thought. _You don't know, and keep your goddamn mouth shut about what you do_.  
"I see," Redding said tonelessly. "Very well." He gave Joe a hard, piercing look. "If that's what you want." Joe nodded. _Yeah, idiot, I'd like to stop bleeding now_. "This will require several stitches. I'll be back with an anesthetic." He stepped from the room, closing the door behind him. David let out a gusting breath.  
"Sorry," he said, coming to stand beside Joe, having drifted a few feet away while the doctor had been in the room. "I didn't know what to say, when he asked me. It seemed too much to try and explain." He drummed his fingers along the side of the examining table, staring at the door. "How did you end up there, though?" He blurted out, turning his head to look at Joe. "I could have sworn I was alone, and then I heard a sound and turned around, and there you were. Like you'd fallen out of the sky." He scoffed a laugh, low and somehow angry, looking away. "It sounds insane when I say it out loud." Joe felt suddenly bad for the guy; he sure as fuck knew what it was like to feel like you were losing it, like you were trapped in someone else's dream. He bumped his elbow against David's arm, shrugged his shoulder in commiseration when David looked back over at him. David opened his mouth to say something else, and then Redding walked back in, and he stepped away instead.  
"Here we are," he said. "If you will lay back, Mr. Lieb. The region of the neck can be quite resistant to local anesthesia." Joe didn't know why that meant he had to lay back, but he did it anyway, watching warily as Redding set a capped needle and small vial onto a metal tray and wheeled it towards him. Joe gestured towards the vial, raising his brow. _What's that?_ "This is a general anesthetic. I'll administer it intravenously, and it will go into effect within seconds. You will still be able to move your limbs, but they will be quite numb."  
"How long does it last?" David asked, peering over the doctor's shoulder.  
"Ten to fifteen minutes, so it may be necessary to give a second dose should the effects begin to wear off before I've finished stitching the wound. Your arm, Mr. Lieb." Joe scowled.  
"I think it's just Lieb," David said, catching his expression. He nodded encouragingly to Joe, not that Joe needed his fucking support, but whatever. He held his arm out to Redding, who turned it over and began rubbing what Joe assumed to be ethanol along the inside of his elbow. Joe turned his gaze towards the ceiling. Just another half hour or so and he would be out of here, could get back to what mattered.  
"You'll feel a prick," Redding said, and he was right, it was barely anything, not after some of the shit he'd had done to him, the shit he'd done to himself. "There. You may experience some dizziness."  
_Some?_ Joe thought, as the room suddenly spun, tilted wildly, blurred.   
"Mr. Webster," he heard Redding say as he whirled down into thick cottony oblivion, "kindly open the door for the orderlies."

* * *

  
The house was silent when Joe stepped through the door. It was late afternoon here, the sun filtering in through the windows with enough strength to shed dim light throughout the rooms. Joe had been away for four months, but usually by this time of day Klara would be back from school, Jake and Judy back from their classes.   
"Hey," he called out, it was too fucking weird for the house to be this quiet. "Hey, anyone home?"  
No answer. Joe started moving through the house, checking rooms, his apprehension growing. He almost didn't enter his parents' room; he didn't want to look down at that damn bed where his ma had spent the last months of her life, didn't want to have to be reminded that she was gone. When he did check it, grimacing against the low aching pain as he opened the door, he nearly closed it again before noticing his father, he had been sitting so still and unmoving in the chair beside the bed.  
"Pop?" His father looked up slowly, his expression vacant.  
"Joseph," he said, when he recognized him. "You're home."  
"Yeah." He moved across the room, knelt down in front of him. "Pop, where are Jake and the girls? Where's Graf?"  
"Your brother and sisters are together," his father said, and smiled. "My children. You are each a separate marvel, but my greatest joy has always been watching you together." He reached out and touched Joe's hair. "A color has been missing from the world with you gone."  
"Where are they, Pop?" Joe's throat was thick with love and loss. "Just tell me where they are, so I can bring them home."  
"I don't know." His face crumpled, then righted itself with mechanical alacrity. "Adele assures me they are together."  
"Jesus Christ. Okay." He gripped his father's hand tightly. "I'm gonna go find them, okay? I'll be back."  
"You have always been a good brother." His father smiled at him, that same gentle smile that he always had for him. To hell with Old Families and debts owed to witches; Joe was going to kill that fucking woman. He stood up, dropping his father's hand. He would go to Al's house, that was where they had planned on retreating if the witch proved to be dangerous, that was where they probably were. Joe backed away from his father, from the lingering ghost of his mother, turned and stepped through the door.  
He came in through the front entrance, and Kay looked up from where she was sitting on the carpet. She had obviously been engaged in some sort of solitary game, her doll and a handful of other stuffed animals arranged in front of her. "Uncle Joe!" She shrieked, then clamped a hand over her mouth.  
"Hey, kid." He crossed the room and scooped her up, her arms and legs wrapping tightly around him. "What're you doing, huh? Where is everybody?"  
"We have to be quiet," she said seriously. She had a tendency to speak slowly, enunciating each word with care. "Papa's trying to get Theo to sleep." She leaned back in his arms, soft hands on his cheeks.  
"Yeah? Where's your mom at?"  
"Joe?" He turned to see Max standing in the hallway, his eyes wide with shock. "What are you doing here?" His expression clouded, he stormed forward. Joe had never seen Max angry before, it took him a moment to realize what he was looking at. "What the hell is going on? Do you know where she is?"  
"Who?" Max's face twisted even further, his lips trembling with feeling. He grabbed Joe by his shoulder and shook him, and Kay went rigid in his arms.   
"Al. Where is she, Joe? Where is my wife?"  
Joe felt the floor go soft and unsteady below him, felt a sudden flush of heat blow through him. His arms loosened without him realizing, he had to catch Kay back up as she started to slip from his grip. Max seemed to suddenly notice that Joe was holding his daughter and snatched her from him. Joe staggered after him, latching on to his elbow, tightening his grip when Max tried to shrug him off. "What happened? What about the others?"  
"How are you here?" Max asked in return. "I haven't even had a chance to mail your letter yet."  
"Fuck, Max, just tell me what fucking happened!" Joe shouted. Kay buried her face in Max's shoulder and began to cry.  
"She disappeared," Max said, thin-voiced. "She went to see your brother and sisters and she didn't come home. I went there, they were all gone. Your old man said they left together with that Adele Graf."  
"When?" Joe grated out.  
"Three days ago. Hey, hey, it's okay, sweetie," he said, running a hand along Kay's back. The fury was leeching out of his face, now he only looked tired, and frightened.  
"And you didn't go to the police?"  
"Of course I went to the police," Max snapped. "They questioned your father, they questioned me, they crawled over both our houses like ticks." He backed away, sinking down onto the couch with Kay still clutched in his arms. "They told me they'd keep me informed. I'm losing my mind, Joe. Al wouldn't just leave, she wouldn't." His voice broke, Joe watched him drop his face into his hand, watched his shoulders begin to shake.  
"No. Max, look at me." He went and stood in front of him, waited to speak until Max lifted red eyes to stare wildly up at him. "The three of you? Al would never. You understand me?" He could barely speak, so he wouldn't blame Max if he didn't understand a damn thing, but Max nodded slowly. "I'm gonna find her. I promise, you got that?"  
"How?" Max asked incredulously. "Joe, they could be anywhere by now."  
Nowhere that Joe couldn't reach. But he didn't have the time or the ability to explain any of it to Max, not now. "Just trust me," he said, turning towards the door.  
"Where are you going? Joe, wait! Where the hell are you going?" Joe ignored him and the sound of Kay still crying, pushing everything from his mind but their faces. Nothing but the five of them, his brother and sisters, the most important people in his world. He opened the door-  
-and stepped out between two trees.   
_The fuck?_ He spun around, but there were only more trees behind him. Beautiful. So now in addition to everything else, he had stranded himself in the woods somewhere, with no food or supplies, and no idea of where he was or how far away he might be from civilization. He usually took more care before stepping through a door. It had been one of the first lessons he had hammered into his younger sisters' heads when they had been starting out: don't go through if you don't have a way back. But if this is where they were, then that was all that mattered at the moment. He would figure the rest out after he found them. Joe looked around, trying and failing to guess where he might have ended up. The trees were thick enough that he couldn't tell where the sun was, and he didn't know shit about identifying wildlife. They weren't redwoods, those were the only trees Joe had ever seen that had been impressive enough for him to bother remembering the name of.  
There was a body of water that he could just make out through the trees, and he walked towards it, dragging his way through thick undergrowth, Jesus Christ, what was this, a fucking jungle? Brambles dragged at the cloth of his pant legs, he staggered his way over roots and vines. The forest was quiet except for the sound of his struggles; just the faint buzzing of insects and his own angry breathing. He wasn't thinking of all the reasons his siblings might have ended up in this remote, uninhabited wilderness. If he started to think about that he might lose it. _Just get to the water_ , he told himself. It was a landmark he could orient himself by, and if it happened to be a stream or a river then maybe he could follow it, use it to find his way out of here.  
It looked more like a pond, all still, glass-smooth water, only disturbed here and there by the prickling movement of bugs along its surface, and by the slow, graceful glide of a handful of geese, grouped loosely together. But geese weren't white, so these must be swans, not that Joe had any way to know for sure. They were big though, their long, slim necks held straight and erect, their heads turning with sharp, quick movements. Joe stood and watched them for a moment. Were there swans in the Bay, or even in the surrounding valleys? Where the hell was he?  
_"You came more swiftly than I expected."_ Joe whipped around, just in time to see Adele Graf step through the rushes, eerily silent. _"Perhaps you are more insightful than I thought."_ She was as beautiful as Joe remembered, but the thin veneer of goodwill that her features had worn before was gone now; her green eyes shone like a cat's, and were just as empty of feeling. Joe felt his whole body go tight with hate. He didn't care what it would take or what it might do to him, she was dead, once she gave him what he wanted, gave him back his family, she was fucking dead. He started to speak, but another voice cut him off, had him spinning to face the opposite direction.  
_"Be silent."_ The voice seemed to echo out from the trees, and then a figure appeared, a small woman, bent with age. _"Now that you have come, the curse has taken root in truth. If you speak, your sisters and your brother are doomed."_  
_Yeah, and who the fuck are you?_ Joe almost said it, he hadn't asked for the counter-advice of another goddamn witch, but then the old woman came closer, and Joe staggered backwards and fell on his ass.  
"Yes, Joseph," his oma said in her slow English. "Your eyes do not deceive you." Then she smiled at him, that same sharp, wicked smile. Joe couldn't breathe. "Stand, boy, and close your foolish mouth."  
_"I see I chose well,"_ Adele said behind him. _"It's been several centuries since you cared enough to appear in person, sister."_  
_"You chose to test me, and I have answered,"_ his oma replied with an insouciant shrug of her bony shoulders. She gestured impatiently at Joe. "What are you doing? Up, before I strike you." He scrambled to his feet, his teeth clenched with shock and terror. He had been afraid before, but not for himself, not really. But his oma had been dead for nearly ten years; he had looked down at her lined face in the coffin, no more or less severe in death than it had been in life. The dead couldn't come back; he could accept a lot of strange things, but not that.  
"I did die," his oma said, reading his face. "But I was more than that wretched body. See?" She gestured downwards, holding her leg out, and Joe almost collapsed again when he saw that her foot was black, and webbed, with sharp short claws capping the end of her three long toes. A swan foot. She cackled, delighted at his horror.  
_"Do you read his thoughts?"_ Adele asked coldly. _"You bend the weave."_  
_"Nonsense. His thoughts are untouched, I simply know the boy. He was always my favorite. Ah, you didn't know that, did you, sister?"_  
_"This one?"_ Adele asked scornfully. _"Who abandons his family to play at war? Your time among mortals has altered you."_ But his oma only answered her with a cruel, serrated smile, and winked at Joe.  
_Fuck this_. Joe grabbed her hand; it felt the same as he remembered, all hard thin bones and sinew. He almost spoke again, but her eyes were harsh with warning, so he swallowed the words down and gestured angrily towards his chest. _Help me, Oma. Where are they?_  
"I am, Joseph," she answered solemnly. "Do you not yet understand? Foolish boy, you never paid attention to my stories." She gestured towards the water with her free hand. "They are there." Joe looked towards the pond, scanned the shoreline. There was nothing, no one, only the swans.  
The swans.  
_No._ Joe dropped her hand, stumbling away, his gaze careening back and forth between the creatures on the water, Adele's cold smile, his oma's flinty stare. His chest was heaving, but he couldn't take a breath. No, this wasn't some goddamn story, this was his family, his life, _no_.  
_"Listen well, Joseph, son of Joseph, son of ****** -"_ Joe didn't know what the last word was that the witch said, it sounded like high screaming wind, the rattling of rocks or the murmuring of a thousand soft voices - _"If you wish your family restored to you, then this is your task."_ Adele was giving off a glow like moonlight, silvery and thin. " _Five siblings, five years to lift the curse. From nettle must you spin and weave five shirts to return them to their true forms, or they remain as cygnets forever. Until this task is complete, you will not utter a sound, to sob or gasp or laugh, nor will you relay your story in any way, nor share your thoughts through written word."_  
What? Fucking what? Joe stared wildly as the strange light emanating from Adele faded, as she turned to his oma with a pleased expression. _"Did I leave anything out, sister?"_  
_"No,"_ she answered stonily. _"Only that you're an ancient cunt, and your fine trappings do little to hide your true nature."_ She waved her hand dismissively. _"Go. I will speak with my grandson."_  
_"Your blood has left them sharp and clever, but not strong,"_ Adele hissed. _"This game is mine, sister."_ She seemed to stretch, expand, unfolding in a way that made Joe feel like he might vomit. He had to look away from it, and when he looked back she was gone.  
"Bah. She always underestimated human blood." His oma had been scowling at the spot where Adele had stood, but now she shifted her hard gaze back to Joe. "And she has underestimated you. Come." She turned, making her way back into the trees. Joe stayed where he was, rooted to the spot, watching the swans in their slow, smooth circuit of the pond. "What, are you waiting for them to come to you, to call you 'brother'? They have all but lost their human thoughts, and you should be thankful for it, for when they do remember it is with nothing but pain. Leave them, if you wish to save them."  
Jesus Christ, this was a dream, a nightmare. Joe followed her into the forest. She didn't go far, stopping in front of two tall, white-barked trees. She took him by the elbow with a tight grip, pulled him after her unceremoniously. She was strong; Joe couldn't have resisted her if he tried. She dragged him between the trees, and into a room, low and simple, well-lit by large windows. Joe looked at her, motioning behind them. _How the hell did you do that?_ She rapped hard knuckles against the side of his head.  
"What is the purpose of this?" She snapped. "Look around you, Joseph. The world is not flat, we do not move through three dimensions, or four, but a number immeasurable. The passages are everywhere, the only limit is the thickness of your skull. Now." She moved across the room, going to a large cabinet with several brightly colored drawers of varying sizes. "I cannot aid you, but I see no harm in lending you a few tools, especially considering my sister's impudent decision to raise the stakes of our game." She fished around in one of the lower drawers, then gestured impatiently to Joe, thrusting two objects into his hand when he came to stand beside her. A stick, and a bigger stick.  
"My spindle and distaff," she said, with no small amount of pride. "You recall how to use them?"  
_No._ Joe stared at her incredulously. Sure, he remembered watching her spin, the distaff settled beneath her arm or between her knees, her ugly hands curling with small, controlled movements as she twisted the fibers. He remembered the stories she would tell as she spun, and how sometimes she would sing in a low, cracking voice, little rhyming songs, most of them equally as terrifying as her stories. She never did anything with the yarn, just gave it away in skeins to wary, distrustful neighbors and family friends. But he had never tried it himself, that was for girls, and nobody fucking spun by hand anymore.  
"You will learn. Take this as well." She stretched her small, crooked frame to reach one of the higher drawers, and Joe stared in appalled fascination at her black foot, and the leg above it, equally dark, stick-thin and roughly pebbled. His oma caught him at it and turned a wide sharp smile on him; she had too many teeth. "My favored form. Why else do you think that sister of mine chose to curse my grandchildren as she did? She has never been known for her originality of thought. Here." She handed Joe a large cloth bag. There was a picture woven into the side of it, like a tapestry, but it was so faded that he couldn't make out what it had once depicted. "A simple loom. Weaving was always my sister's preference." Joe started to open the bag, and she slapped his hand. "Time for that later. Listen to me." She took him by the wrist, her fingers hard, her eyes strange and wild. She only looked like his oma, Joe realized, only wore her face and her mannerisms. But she was something else, something incomprehensible. "You remember the story, yes? Six brothers turned to swans, and their young sister the only one who could save them. Do you recall how she wept in silence as she stripped the nettle, how loneliness and pain wracked her for six long years?" Joe nodded, his heart thudding in his throat. "There is a lesson for you in that story, which is now your own. Do you know it?" He shook his head. "The lesson is this: the end is won only through suffering. You will suffer in this work, you will suffer in your silence. That is the price. Do you understand?"  
_Why are you doing this?_ Joe suddenly wanted to tear the room to pieces, to break it apart, and every colorful and strange object that adorned it. She was a witch, a sorceress, maybe even a fucking goddess, and she was his grandmother, she had watched them grow up. Why him, why was she letting this happen? Joe glared at her, his chest heaving with how badly he wanted to shout. He pulled his wrist free from her grasp. _Didn't you care about us at all?_  
"Don't be foolish," she said in answer. "I loved you." She waved her hand as if batting away a fly, or a wayward thought. "But that was when I was human. Look at the spindle, Joseph." She took his hand, the one that was holding the spindle, lifting and turning it over in her own. "Do you know what this spindle turns?" She raised her eyes to meet his and Joe flinched back from their expression. "Everything," she said triumphantly. "The world, and all its shadows and permutations, it all turns with the spindle. I twist the fiber into thread, and form structure and life from the raw firmament. And you, my boy." She reached up and patted his cheek. "You are my grandson. Remember that." She closed her hand around his own, around the spindle. "And remember what this truly is." Joe stared at her, his mind whirling around ideas too large and foreign to process. This was just a fancy stick, an outdated tool, and he wasn't anything other than a brother, a son. His oma nodded firmly at him.  
"You have what instructions I am free to give you. Now you must set to your task." She let go of his hand, gestured impatiently. "Do not linger in my realm. Take the door straight back." Joe turned away, clutching the bag and his oma's distaff and spindle. _This is stupid_ , he thought, as he walked towards the door. _I'm stuck playing the role of a girl in a fairy tale, and my grandmother and her sister are the witches that cursed me, and I don't know how to fucking spin or weave a goddamn shirt, and my brother and sisters are swans._ Maybe he was crazy, maybe he had passed out on the side of the trail on Currahee. He put his hand to the door and stepped out of the bathroom in the library in San Francisco. He took a moment to stuff the spindle into the bag, tucking the distaff under his arm as surreptitiously as he could, then made his way towards the stacks.  
_Okay_ , he thought, glancing around. He wasn't very familiar with the place, had only been inside a handful of times with Jake or Judy. _Okay. What the fuck is nettle?_


	4. Chapter 4

Jesus, his neck hurt. Joe turned his head in an attempt to alleviate some of the pain, and when that didn't work he raised a hand to put a little pressure against the spot, but his arm only lifted an inch or so before it couldn't move any more, like something was holding it down. His eyes snapped open. He was on his back on the examining table, bright light above him. He yanked again with his arm, with both arms, why couldn't he move his fucking arms? He lifted his head.  
He was alone in the room, the metal tray still beside the bed. He was tied down to the sides of it by leather straps around his wrist and ankles. Joe only had a moment to feel confused, shocked, and then his whole body skipped forward straight into frenzied rage. _No, fuck no, you can't fucking do this_. He thrashed against the restraints, his body bucking, the cut on his neck throbbing and too tight, but the leather didn't give an inch. His mouth was open, he realized, like he might scream or shout, and he clenched it shut so forcefully that he bit down on his own tongue. He forced himself to stop, to lay still, focused all his attention on one arm. He glared at his wrist, pulled against the leather strap with all his strength, until the tendons rose up in answer beneath his skin and his muscles shook with effort, but the restraints didn't loosen in the slightest, didn't even creak or shift in response to his efforts. Joe was just about to start thrashing again when he heard a voice outside the door.  
"If you have me thrown me out, I'll go straight to the paper. They might be interested in a story about how you've drugged and restrained a man against his will." Joe didn't recognize the voice for a moment, dripping like it was with cold disdain, then he realized that it was David, the asshole who had convinced him to come here in the first place.  
"I'm sure you'll do as your conscience dictates. Your concern for this man is admirable, but I assure you that every step we have taken has been in consideration of his wellbeing."  
"Right," David drawled. "Are doctors still required to take the Hippocratic Oath?"  
"A modern version of it, yes," Redding answered smoothly. "You're not a physician, Mr. Webster, but let me ask your opinion. What do you believe caused that injury on his neck?" There was a long pause.  
"I couldn't say for sure," David said quietly, stiffly.  
"I think you could. A cut like that was made by a knife, or a similar sharp object. Perhaps a scalpel. It's something of a miracle that he didn't hit a vein or a tendon, given the severity of the wound."  
"You don't know that he did it, or that he did it with the intent to hurt himself. That's pure conjecture."  
"On the contrary, the circumstances under which you found him lead me to believe precisely that. Did you happen to notice his hands?"  
"Yes," David said reluctantly, like he had been anticipating the question.  
"This man has been harming himself, Mr. Webster, and not just recently. Furthermore, I don't believe that he is truly mute, but is instead choosing to remain silent in an attempt to protect himself. There is a facility-"  
"No," David cut in sharply. "Look, I think he just." He stopped, and Joe held his breath, tried to hold his body back from shaking. When David spoke again, it was halting. "There was a man in my company who lost his vision, right in the middle of a firefight. He didn't hit his head, wasn't injured in any way, he just suddenly couldn't see. Our medic called it hysterical blindness. It was too much for him, in that moment. Couldn't Lieb's inability to speak be something like that?"  
"It very well could be."  
"Maybe he served. You know? A lot of men have come back with," he paused, started again, "with things they can't unpack."  
"All the more reason for him to be taken where-"  
"I couldn't imagine a worse place for him to end up." He laughed, a little wildly. "You give every bit of good inside of you to that fucking war, and you come back changed, and who the hell wouldn't, and we put you in a straitjacket for it? For not being a machine, for not being what you were expected to be?"   
"Mr. Webster." Redding's voice was suddenly soft. "I say this with the utmost respect, both for your service, and for your compassion. But I believe you are letting your personal experiences color your opinion of this man and what he may be suffering from."  
"I want to talk to him," David said, after a short, tense silence.   
"I believe we have already established that he will not speak back."  
"He gets his point across. Let me talk to him."   
Dr. Redding sighed. "Very well. It's alright, Henry, let him through." The door opened, and David walked in, followed by Redding and another man. David's eyes went straight to him, and Joe didn't know if he wanted to snarl or whimper, so he just clamped his jaw and glared.   
"Mr. Lieb," Redding said coolly, coming to stand beside the table. "How is your neck feeling?"  
_Come a little closer, I'll give you one to match_. Joe bared his teeth.  
"I'm glad you're awake," David said. Jesus Christ, this guy was Joe's only hope of getting out of here, this idiot staring down at him with searching eyes. "Listen, the doctor thinks that you." He hesitated, not looking at Redding, not looking away from Joe. "That you could use some quiet." He smiled shakily. "We all could, right? There's a place not far from here -"  
_No_. Joe shot forward as much as the straps would let him, thrusting his face up towards him. _Fuck you, fuck all of you_. David swallowed convulsively, but didn't move away.  
"Is there anyone I can call for you?" He asked. "If you can tell me somehow, or write it down, I'll make sure they know where you are and what's happened." Joe scowled, and tipped his chin towards David's chest. He stared up at him. _You got me into this, now get me out of it_. Something in David's expression changed, sharpened. He looked away for the first time, glancing at Redding and the orderly. When he looked back at Joe, it was with a stubbornly set chin and a resolved expression.  
"Lieb." His voice dropped, his hand reached out, light fingers on the side of Joe's neck. Joe should have bit him, but instead he went still. "Did you do this to yourself?" Joe glared, gave one emphatic shake of his head. David nodded slowly. "And your hands?"   
He should lie, he didn't have any goddamn reason to tell him the truth. Joe felt his mouth twist down, saw David note it, and knew it was already too late. "Can you tell me why?" Words bubbled up in his chest, words fought to burst their way free of his throat and mouth. He was so fucking tired of swallowing them back down, of being alone. Joe shook his head, blinking rapidly to ease the burning behind his eyes. David looked at him for a moment, then closed his eyes, his head turning away, his lips moving soundlessly.   
"Doctor," he said, opening his eyes and turning to face Redding and the orderly. "What if he came with me?"  
"With you," Redding said tonelessly.  
"If he had family here, would you release him to them if they were willing?"  
"If I thought them up to the significant task of watching over him."  
"Well, I'm here and at my own leisure for the foreseeable future." David spread his arms in a lightly mocking gesture. "I'm a model citizen, you can ask anyone."  
"You don't know this man, Mr. Webster."  
"Oh, we're good friends, right, Lieb?" David looked over at him, grinning crookedly. Joe stared at him. _You're the one who's nuts_. "I know him well enough to believe that this is the best solution. If I'm willing, and he's willing, then it's better for everyone involved, don't you agree?"  
"Mr. Webster-"  
"Look, you know this isn't right," David said, suddenly harsh. "Can you honestly say you feel more comfortable with the idea of committing a man against his will?" Redding tapped an aggravated finger against the side of the examining table.  
"Mr. Lieb." He came to stand beside Joe, stepping in front of David. Joe sneered up at him. "Despite what you may be imagining, the place I have in mind to send you is not some Victorian asylum of padded cells and iced baths. It is a modern facility, where you will receive three square meals a day, and the only thing that will be expected of you in return is cooperation with your caregivers. I believe this is the best place for you, a place where you can rest for a time." He glanced over his shoulder at David, then returned his unwavering gaze to Joe. "However, you are not in psychosis, and are capable of communicating your own desires. I can release you today, with the understanding that you would be willing to put yourself under this man's care. Am I correct in assuming you have no other family that could be contacted for this purpose?" Joe glared, and Redding's mouth flattened. "I find your unwillingness to provide information that may aid us in helping you gravely concerning, Mr. Lieb. Nevertheless, you do still have a voice in what happens next."  
_Whoa, slow down Doc, I'm feeling spoiled for fucking choice_. Joe jerked his head towards David. _I'll take this one_. Redding gave a disappointed sigh.  
"Henry, tell Arlene to gather the necessary paperwork, then return here and remove Mr. Lieb's restraints." He fixed David with a gimlet eye as the orderly stepped out of the room. "I have some further instructions for you, Mr. Webster. And I will warn you, I consider it my duty both as a physician and a family friend to notify your father about the new guest that will be residing in his summer home." David's lips had been curving up with something like relief, maybe even a little smugness, but Redding's words wiped the smile straight off his face.   
"Fantastic," he drawled, glaring first at Redding, and then at Joe.

* * *

  
The first year of the curse, Joe didn't manage to accomplish much of anything.  
He spent the first few months not really thinking about a lot of it. He couldn't think about his brother and sisters, couldn't think about his oma or any of the shit that had happened that day, or his hands would start to shake, his breath would start to hitch in his chest. So he thought about other stuff, more pressing concerns, like where the hell he was going to live, and what kind of work he was going to be able to get now that he couldn't talk. San Francisco and Oakland were out, now that he was a deserter, and part of a missing persons case. Joe ended up taking a door back to Detroit, because he still knew the city fairly well despite the fact that it had been more than fifteen years since they had moved away. He managed to land a mind-numbingly dull job at one of the factories and an apartment with indoor plumbing on the outskirts of the city that he paid way too much for, and he was nothing but goddamn thankful to pay it, because city housing was a nightmare these days. Once he had that settled, Joe bought an atlas and started marking likely spots, working his way out from the city.   
Supposedly nettle grew wherever, but that didn't mean that he had an easy time finding it. Daylight hours that he wasn't working were spent stomping along streams and across meadows, scowling at every growing thing he came across. How the hell were you supposed to tell shit apart? He wasn't a fucking farmer. When he found a plant, Joe would stop and frown at the picture he had ripped from the book in the library, comparing the leaves, before eventually giving up and testing it the only sure way, by running his hand along the stalks.  
Even though he knew it would hurt, it was still a surprise the first time he touched one. The quick sting that had his hand jerking back, swallowing a hissed curse, which slowly deepened to a low burn. After a couple hours the pain would fade away to a tingling itch, and it wouldn't be so bad, Joe supposed, if he didn't have to keep touching the damn things over and over. And he was barely touching them at this point, just finding patches where they grew and marking them on the atlas maps he kept spread out across his counter, because apparently they shouldn't be harvested or whatever the fuck until late summer.   
He had only been in Detroit for a couple of months when the riots started, people pushed to the limit by hate and overcrowding. Joe packed his bag and kept it slung over his shoulder in case he ended up needing to make a quick exit, and stood and watched the madness from his window. What the fuck was wrong with everyone? Weren't plenty of people dying already, wasn't the world miserable enough? There was a low, gnawing absence in his stomach, but Joe wasn't thinking about that. He wasn't thinking about any of that.   
Nights when he should have been sleeping, he tossed and turned instead and thought about anything else but that. He thought about Easy, wondered how they were handling jump training, because there was no doubt they were there by now. Every once in a while he let himself think about his old man, and about Max and the kids, and thinking about them would inevitably give way to thoughts about Adele Graf and how much Joe would like to kill her. Those thoughts were easy, comforting, a chant of hate that he used to soothe himself to sleep.   
The heat peaked and started to relent, and Joe could finally get to work. He started making the rounds to the the different spots he'd marked on his maps, taking his apartment door to the surrounding suburban sprawl of the city, and even further. Every now and then he thought about what his oma had said, that the passages were everywhere, that a door as he knew it wasn't needed, but that was too crazy a concept for him to wrap his head around. It was easier to just keep on traveling like he always had.  
Gathering the nettle was painful enough, but the real agony came afterwards, when he sat on the bathroom floor back at his apartment and started stripping the leaves. There wasn't any avoiding it, wasn't any other way except to grab the stalks with an unflinching hand, and pull down across their long, burning length. Sure, there were plenty of things he could do to make it easier, a simple pair of goddamn gloves being the first thing that came to mind, but Joe could hear the echo of his oma's voice in his head, could see the hard light in her eyes when she had warned him. He was supposed to suffer; the pain was the whole point. So his hands swelled, stiffened and turned red, and the fire under his skin didn't ease after a few hours like it had after those light, testing touches he had subjected himself to before. It got so bad that Joe eventually had to stop and reevaluate, not because of the pain, but because he began to worry that he wouldn't be able to use his hands at all, and that wouldn't do him any good. He had to hold on to his job at the factory; he still had to eat after all.  
So he did it in stages, stripping the leaves until his hands swelled to the point where they began to lock into place, then leaving the work for a few days to give them time to recover. The stripped stalks he dumped into his tub and soaked in water, and fuck, he was not prepared for the stench that the damn things started to produce after a few days. The book he'd read hadn't mentioned anything about how awful it would smell. Joe opened his windows and hoped that the goddamn miasma would dissipate enough that no one would know it was coming from his apartment.  
After they soaked, they had to dry out, and then the stalks had to be broken apart, the brittle shell peeled away from the soft fibers inside, and Jesus Christ, how long was this going to fucking take? It would be a hell of a lot easier if he could just kill the witch. But she was more than a witch, and Joe, shit with doors notwithstanding, was only a human. So he ground his teeth and imagined cracking Adele's neck beneath his twisting hands as he worked the fiber free and hung it on the distaff. And by the time the cold started to creep over the city, the distaff was wrapped in fibers, and Joe had stalks to spare, retted, dried, and bundled up in the corner of the kitchen.   
Maybe it was the cold, maybe it was the way it cleared and thinned the air so that the quiet seemed to press down on him, seemed to loom over his shoulder like a ghost. Or maybe it was because he was starting to spin, and he couldn't do that without picturing his oma, the way she had sat, the movements of her hands. Either way, Joe couldn't seem to stop his thoughts anymore. He sat and fumbled with the spindle, his hands mostly recovered from the painful work of stripping the nettle, but marked now with small white scars from where the skin had blistered and burst. His oma had talked while she spun; her eyes had hardly lifted from her work but she had always known what was going on around her. Her gruesome stories, her crooning songs. Joe remembered them all, and it would have been weirdly comforting to sit like she had and reproduce them. But he couldn't speak, and he had no one to speak to.  
If somebody had asked him a year ago if he thought he was the type of guy to get lonely easily, Joe probably would have socked them in the jaw for the implication of weakness, then walked off and forgotten all about the question. Because it was stupid; sure, he liked people, but he liked his own company just fine too, and who had time to be lonely when there was so much shit to do? Of course he wouldn't be lonely on his own.   
But it was so fucking quiet. Joe tried cracking his window a couple of times, so that the sounds of the city could come in and break the silence up, but it was too damn cold at night for that, and so instead he sat in his dark apartment, every light off other than the one over his kitchen table, and he spun, his fingers slowly finding the trick of it, and he imagined that they were there with him. They could only be so silent for the next breath or two, had just talked themselves out the way they sometimes did. They were just in the next room, if he lifted his voice and called out, _Hey, Judy, get in here and give me a hand_ , then she would shout back, quick as anything, _You got another arm to go with it_ , and he could say, _Just get the hell in here already_ or _Whoa, you're a real act, you should take it on the road_ or _I love you, you goddamn brat_.   
Some nights the silence felt like a sharp point digging into the space beneath his ribs, and on nights like those Joe recited stories in his head, some his oma's, some his own. _A girl dropped her spindle in a well, and when she peered down after it she saw a green world waiting far below. She leapt down, down, to the bottom of the well, and found herself in a land where the trees and animals spoke like men. Two brothers walked home together, and the youngest took the other through a door and showed him his secret place, a rooftop from which the city spread out below them in patchwork tiers, and the oldest threw his arm around the other and told him that they were kings. A brother and sister were abandoned in the woods, and the girl wept but the boy took her by the hand and promised to never leave her, and when they found a clearing with a house made of gingerbread and spun sugar, neither of them knew, as they ripped the sweets from the panes, how in the end the sister would save them both. Four sisters danced with bare feet in the kitchen while their mother clapped the rhythm and sang the melody in a strong, laughing voice, and their father called them the four dancing princesses, and their brother, watching them, didn't know then how the moment would glow warm in his memory on a night so cold and silent that it could crack a heart, but not yet._  
Before the curse, time flew by at a rate that Joe had found worrisome when he bothered to think about it. Before the curse, he had shouted to be heard over the table at dinner, because his family was so damn loud, or grunted his responses in the morning, eating as quickly as possible while his sisters chattered like magpies or fought like cats around him, because he had to get out the door, had to get over to the cab company or help out at the shop. There was always plenty of shit to worry over, but then, there had always been something to laugh about too. Fuck, what he wouldn't give to have something to laugh about these days, what he wouldn't give to feel that again, the pleased jump of his stomach, the way it rolled up, how he would have to throw his head back from the sheer force of it as it moved through his throat. Did he have a loud laugh? He didn't know; who paid attention to their own laugh anyway? You paid attention to the people you were laughing with. Jake had a quiet laugh, had a way of dropping his head down like he couldn't believe the ridiculous shit he was laughing at. Klara and Gertie barked their amusement, Judy cackled like their oma. Al laughed like their ma had, low, all in the throat. They would laugh again, Joe promised himself, his heart twisting in his chest. He wasn't going the rest of his life without laughing with his sisters and brother again, that was all there was to it. And he planned on living a long time, and why the hell not? If all those other stories were true, if every story his oma told them had actually happened, then what was so wild or unbelievable about six brothers and sisters living long, happy, normal goddamn lives? The spindle spun the world, right? He wasn't some immortal witch, but he was the grandson of one, and he didn't give a fuck about making the world turn to his will, only this small fraction of it.  
It was funny, how it took him close to a year to actually decide that he was going to do it. He had been moving by rote before, his mind carefully locked on the task in front of him. It was like he couldn't absorb it, like he had to ease his way into accepting it, all of it. _My mother is dead, my grandmother isn't. My father is ensorcelled, my brother and sisters are swans. We've been cursed, but I can break it, but I'm alone._  
He hadn't ever been alone before. It wasn't any good, Joe decided. He wasn't putting up with it a second longer than he had to. What was the point of a life, if you didn't have someone you were living it for, didn't have someone to give all these fucking thoughts and feelings to? He needed them back, he couldn't stand the silence, the emptiness. So when the cold finally started to dissipate, when spring stuttered in with faltering steps and Joe marked the day and realized that a full year had gone by, he gathered everything up and took it to the kitchen to measure out his progress. He had spun every spare moment of the day, all winter long, like Rumpel-fucking-stiltskin, and he had skeins of yarn to show for it, but not a single shirt. He hadn't done anything with the loom other than stare at it. His oma had never weaved anything, he didn't even know where to start with the thing. He had four years left to lift the curse, and a hell of a way to go, but somewhere over the course of the winter his resolve had hardened, honed to a dagger point, and Joe didn't really know what the edge was formed from, couldn't tell the difference between hate and loneliness, and he didn't care so much to try to tell them apart so long as they kept driving him forward. He was going to save them. He was getting his family back.


	5. Chapter 5

When they walked out of the hospital together, David tight-lipped and tense, as if he were the one who had just been strapped down to a bed and stuck with needles, Joe didn't plan on sticking around. He was done with this fucking fishing village, or whatever the hell it was, he still had no idea where he actually was. When he put his hand to the latch of the car, he thought briefly about leaving right then and there. He hadn't ever used a car door before, it might be worth a try, and it would serve David right if Joe disappeared right in front of his eyes. Maybe he would gape like a fish, maybe it would drive him a little crazy, like he obviously thought Joe was. Joe felt an unexpected pang of guilt at the thought; nobody deserved that, no matter how irritated he might be with the guy. David had pulled him out of the water, after all, and he was the only reason Joe wasn't still flat on his back and silently screaming. But he was also the one who had convinced him to go to the hospital in the first place. Joe scowled and got into the car, picking his haversack up and tucking it under his arm. The hell with it. He would wait until tonight to step away, and David would be relieved or disappointed, but it wouldn't fuck with his head.  
David didn't try to make conversation while he drove, which was fine with Joe. He watched out the window as the spaces between buildings began to widen, the view opening in stages so that he caught glimpses of the ocean, low hillocks of beachgrass, a lighthouse. They turned inland, the sun sunk low, the clouds glowing like a nimbus, and the houses didn't gather together into any sort of neighborhood, but the ocean faded from sight, which Joe thought was kind of funny. What the hell kind of rich asshole had an ocean-side summer house that wasn't on the ocean? Then they passed a small, neatly stenciled sign for a tennis club, and Joe smirked. That kind of rich asshole.   
And sure enough, the houses got bigger as they went along, jutting up from the gently rolling landscape, not ostentatious, but stately. Boring. If he had more money than God, Joe would do something good and garish with it, live that shit up. He'd buy a chunk of land right on the beach, and drive his neighbors nuts with construction, and the house he built wouldn't be one of those sad square things that everyone was building these days, it would have obnoxious towers and big columns, and Joe would paint it some wild color. He'd be the talk of the town hall meetings, the scourge of the yacht club. It would be fun.  
_Dreaming_ , he thought, blinking as he pulled himself back from his thoughts. _No time for that_. Anyways, he didn't need some big splash of a life. He tightened his grip on the bag.  
They turned off the road, went along a short straight drive, and came to a stop in front of a big, shingle-sided gray house. Joe got out of the car, looping his haversack over his shoulder, and took a moment to look around. He still didn't know anything about identifying trees and plants, despite having spent way too much time these last few years clomping around outside. It was nice though, caught in the soft setting light. Not too overgrown, not too perfectly kept. He glanced at David and found him staring at the house like it was the first time he was seeing it, or maybe like he wasn't seeing it at all. David looked over at him, and Joe watched his jaw stiffen.  
"Listen." He walked around the hood of the car, stopping to stand beside Joe, his arms folding across his chest. It was starting to get on Joe's nerves, that serious, weighing stare that David kept leveling at him. "I hope you realize, I had no idea they were going to try to." He stopped, shifted his weight. "Well. I didn't expect that to happen. And those things I said about watching over you, I would have said anything at that point to convince them to let you go." He shrugged uncomfortably. "It's worse than a fool's errand to try to control someone else, and I have a feeling you would make it more difficult than most." Joe stared at him. He tried to tell himself that talk was cheap, but that couldn't hold water, not with what he knew these days. Words could bind you down, words could rise up and choke you. "What I'm trying to say is, I'm not going to attempt to make you stay, if you would rather go." David gestured towards the house. "I'm here through the winter, and you're welcome to stay for as long as you like, but only if - why do you keep looking at me like that?" He suddenly burst out, then snapped his mouth shut with a click, flustered and bright with annoyance. And fuck if Joe knew why that struck him straight in the gut, why it made a flush of heat wash through him and pool up beneath his skin. The guy had a temper that he clearly didn't know what to do with, and it looked good on him. _You're a little on edge, huh? I could help you out with that_. Joe banished the errant thought before it could take root, staring flatly at David until he looked away. Then he stomped past him towards the house, heard David sigh loudly and follow after him.   
When he reached the door, he turned back around to face him, looking him square in the eye and lifting a brow. _Like this, you mean?_ He was surprised when David laughed, the anger falling away from his face like it had never been. He hadn't thought that the guy would pick up on what he had been trying to get across; nobody else had ever seemed to. David stepped up beside him to unlock the door, and Joe couldn't really explain to himself why he didn't step back, put a little space between them. It had been a long day, nothing made any damn sense. David's arm was a full inch away from his chest, but swear to God, Joe could feel the warmth like it was brushing up against him.  
The house was dim, and David didn't bother with the lights. "Are you hungry?" He asked, looking briefly at Joe before moving across the room towards an open doorway. "God, you must be. I know I'm famished." Joe followed him down a wide hallway and through a big dining room, then down another more narrow hall and into a black-and-white tiled kitchen. David flicked on the lights and crossed the room to open the refrigerator. He stood unmoving in front of it, awash in the harsh light, and then he gave a low, unamused chuckle. "Fuck. Maybe we should go back out. I was going to stop by the grocer's today, but," he glanced over at Joe, his mouth tilted up in a self-mocking smile, "something came up."  
He was a weird one, it was becoming more apparent with each hour that Joe spent in his company. What kind of guy barely reacted when he found himself in open water with a shark closing in, but got all stiffly unnerved at the prospect of a little foraging? Joe came to stand beside him, peering over his arm to look inside the fridge. He threw David a disbelieving look. _Are you an idiot?_ He jammed his elbow hard into his side, and David grunted in surprise and backed away. Joe looked the contents of the fridge over, then paced around the kitchen until he found the pantry door, opening that up too and peering inside. The place was fucking stocked. There was enough food here to feed a goddamn army. Joe went back to the fridge and pulled the wrapped package of meat from the bottom drawer, turning around to confront David with it, shaking it accusingly.  
"It's, uh," David stuttered. _Yeah, go on_. Joe shoved it up under his nose, and David blinked and pulled away. "It's black bass. I caught it a couple days ago."   
_And you haven't eaten it yet?_ What the hell was wrong with this guy? Joe mostly wanted to go to sleep, despite the fact that he had spent what felt like half the day drugged or unconscious. Maybe because he had spent the other half of the day running or fighting for his life. But he could eat, and David was clearly useless, so why not help himself to a good meal? Joe scowled at David until he moved out of his way, then got to work.  
He had always liked helping his ma out in the kitchen. Maybe it wasn't the kind of thing a guy was supposed to enjoy, but Joe didn't give a fuck. There was a steadiness to it, something unmovable. The house could be coming apart around him, his family could be yelling, fighting or laughing, and no matter how crazy it might get Joe could turn around and toss off a, _Would you get the hell out, I'm trying to cook here_ , his right to command indisputable when he was the guy making them their dinner. He hadn't cooked for anyone but himself for years, and it didn't count as real cooking, the cheap, quick shit he had been living off of.   
And it turned out, as he chopped carrots and cooked them up the way his ma used to, with cinnamon and raisins and some honey that he couldn't resist helping himself to a spoonful of, and as he fried the fish, the smells rising up warm around him, that he was actually hungry. He was fucking starving. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't eaten all day, and it had been a hell of a day. He looked at David, standing in the corner like an outdated appliance. Joe raised a hand and made a circling motion in the air. _You got dishes or what?_ David looked askance at him for a moment, then went to a cupboard and pulled out a couple of plates. "These?" Joe nodded, and David brought them over. He was so hungry, Joe plunked his ass right down on the kitchen floor, the plate cradled in his lap. But he forced himself to take his time with the first few bites, especially the carrots, the familiar flavor summoning up a well of memories, potent and sweet enough to make him close his eyes momentarily. He opened them again when David sank to the floor beside him, smiling faintly. "It's been a while since I ate like this."  
_What, on the floor?_ Joe gave him a questioning look as he ate his fish.  
"I don't know how to cook anything more complicated than canned beans. This is sort of nice." He took a bite, then quirked a brow at Joe. "It's good," he said, like he hadn't expected it to be. _No shit_. Joe shook his head and scraped up the last of his carrots. "Where did you learn? To cook, I mean?"  
How did he expect Joe to answer that? And why did he think Joe would? But maybe he hadn't really expected an answer at all, because he took a slow, contemplative bite and continued talking.  
"Maybe you were classically trained. There aren't any worthy culinary schools here in the States, so you went to Paris, or maybe London. You attended Le Cordon Bleu, and you learned all the traditional methods but always found a way to keep the flavors of home in each dish. You probably would have stayed in Europe, but then the war broke out and you came home." Joe was done eating, and he leaned back on his hand and watched David as he talked on, almost listlessly, eating so mechanically Joe doubted he was even tasting it any more. "Or you learned at home. Maybe you come from a long line of fiercely scowling men who guard their family recipes closely and never commit them to paper, passing them down orally from one generation to the next." His plate, balanced on his knee, started to tilt to the side, and David caught it with a jerk, then glanced over at Joe with heavy-lidded eyes. "Which one was closest?" He asked thickly, and Joe realized that the guy was nearly as done in as him.  
He dropped his plate on top of David's with a loud clatter, grinning when he jumped and blinked rapidly in response. Then he stood up, retrieving his haversack and turning to look at David expectantly.  
"Oh." He gaped up at him from where he was still sitting on the floor, then climbed to his feet and set the dishes in the sink. "You're right, it's been a long day. I'll show you the bed." His throat jumped, and he threw Joe a wary look. "Your bed," he clarified, the faintest of flushes crawling up his neck. "I mean. Your room." Joe smirked, and motioned to David to lead the way.  
David led him up a set of stairs and to a room at the end of a hallway. He reached through the door to turn the light on, then stepped back and lifted his hand, gesturing Joe in. Joe poked his head in, then turned a hard look on David. _Yeah, I don't think so_.   
It was way too nice, the hardwood laid with thick rugs, the windows framed with lacy white curtains. It had a door leading out to a balcony, and two wide, neatly made up beds, and the walls were painted a pale pink.  
"What?" David asked defensively. "It's the guest room. The other ones are used by my family when they're here, and I didn't think you would want...why am I having to justify putting a guest in the guest room?" Joe could feel his lip wanting to twitch up in response to his open aggravation. David stared at him a moment, and then smiled back, slow and baffled. "There's a spare room on the third floor, but it isn't made up," he offered.  
_Sounds good_. Joe turned away, heading back down the hall, David following behind him. The next set of stairs were more narrow, unlit and hidden away behind a door. The room they led up to was obviously used for storage; stray pieces of furniture covered in white sheets, neatly stacked and labelled cardboard boxes. Joe went through the only door. This was more like it. A simple unmade bed on a plain metal frame, a side table and a dusty chair.  
"There are sheets around here somewhere, I'm sure," David said, stepping past him and opening one of the closets. "Sorry. I'm fairly certain the only reason we have a bed up here is in order to insult my mother's least favorite brother-in-law when he comes to stay. She always makes sure someone else is visiting at the same time so she can stick him in the attic." He turned around, his arms loaded with bedding, and Joe stepped in front of him before he could cross to the bed. "What?" Joe reached out and pulled the blankets from his arms, David blinking stupidly at him. He tilted his chin to the side, towards the door. "Oh. Alright." David made an open gesture with his shoulder. "I'm just downstairs if you need anything. I'm going to shower and turn in. Do you need me to show you the bathroom?" Joe stared at him. _Get out_. Like he couldn't find a damn bathroom without someone holding his hand. "Fine," David said testily. "Goodnight." He backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.  
Alone at fucking last. Joe rubbed a careful hand along his neck, picking at the bandage, then dumped the bedding on the corner of the mattress, pulling a blanket free and leaving the rest in a pile. He was only planning on sleeping for a few hours, there wasn't any point in fixing it up. But Jesus, he needed to sleep before he moved on, he could barely see straight at this point. He started to set his haversack on the floor, then thought better of it, putting it on the bed beside him instead. He pulled the blanket over himself, then threw an arm around the bag, hugging it close. _Where to?_ He managed to ask himself, but that was as far as he was able to get in planning his next step before exhaustion pulled him under.

* * *

  
The back of Joe's neck started itching as he walked up the sidewalk to his apartment building. He rubbed at it, but the feeling persisted. _Now what?_ He thought, bracing himself, throwing a covert glance around, but everything seemed normal. He slouched his shoulders and slunk inside, forcing himself to not check behind him as he went. _You're paranoid_ , he told himself as he trudged up the stairs. _Comes from talking to yourself in your own head all the damn time_. Then he turned the corner and saw all his stuff piled outside his door.  
_What the fuck_ , he almost shouted, because even after nearly a year and a half of not speaking he still almost forgot all the time, and over the most stupid shit too. But he caught himself, and stormed forward instead, his teeth clamped together to prevent any slip ups. He threw the door open, and two men turned to look at him. His landlord, and Keller, the super. Joe snarled at them, threw his arm out angrily.  
"Here he is, Mr. Stines," Keller said. He was holding Joe's loom, the half-finished shirt.   
"Mr. Lehmann," his landlord said, calling Joe by the name he had been living under. "I'm evicting you from this apartment and my property. Immediately." Joe stood seething. _Why?_ He was never late on rent, and Christ knew he was a quiet tenant. Stines had seemed like a decent enough guy when Joe first met him; he had a tendency to talk loudly at Joe as if he were hard of hearing in addition to being mute, but most people did dumb stuff like that. "You should consider yourself fortunate that I don't seize your property in an attempt to recoup damages."  
"Nothing to seize," Keller said helpfully. "Say, what is this?" Joe stomped forward and snatched the loom out of his hand. He glared at Stines, then looked pointedly around the apartment. Sure, it wasn't the cleanest place, but he hadn't damaged a damn thing.  
"I'm referring to the indelible odor that has permeated every inch of this space," Stines said coldly. "Would you care to explain the cesspit you've created in my bathroom?"  
"Wasting your time, Mr. Stines." Keller turned away, kicking the pile of bundled up stalks in the corner. "The guy ain't all there."  
Jesus Christ, what a shit show. Joe shoved past them, his gaze jumping around the room as he tried to figure out where to start, what had been moved where. The haversack that he kept half-packed was still in its spot beside the couch; Joe grabbed it and started going around the apartment, collecting everything important. His spare yarn was in the hallway, his maps had been thrown in the trash. Joe fished them back out and crammed them into his bag as Stines and Keller stood watching.   
"I took a chance on you, Mr. Lehmann. I had several parties interested in this space, but I rented it to you, despite my misgivings." _Yeah, right_. More like Joe had been willing to pay the same amount that Stines would have charged a whole family to cram into this tiny scrap of an apartment. "I should have trusted my instincts, but I dismissed them at the time as unkind."  
What was with the monologue? Fuck, he'd like to tear into the guy. Joe slung his haversack onto his back and grabbed the bundled stalks. Now he just needed something to transport the rest of the nettle in, the batch he had been in the process of retting. "What the hell is he doing?" He heard Keller mutter as he pulled a kitchen drawer loose and dumped its contents out on the counter, loose silverware and accumulated odds and ends clattering as they spilled across its surface. Joe shouldered past them and into the bathroom, stopping with a jerk of his body and his heart when he saw the empty tub.  
Where was it? Joe spun around, saw Stine's smug smile, and _Jesus Christ, do you know what you've fucking done?_ His had a feeling like his body was vibrating, humming, but when he checked his hands were steady.  
"If you're looking for the rotting vegetation we discovered in there, it's been disposed of. I had Keller throw it out."  
"It stank, that stuff," Keller said. "What were you doing, making fertilizer?"  
Goddamn it. Joe stepped towards them, gestured angrily with his hand, _Where? Where is it?_ But Keller just looked at him blankly, and if Stines understood what he was trying to ask he didn't show it, just shook his head, something like disgust twisting his features.  
"Don't bother trying to make sense of him. I've always said, there's only one foolproof measure of a man. Do you know what it is, Keller?"  
"No, what?"  
"Whether he has other people in his life willing to claim him." There was something in his expression when he said it, something that Joe should maybe have paid more attention to, but he was too busy dropping the bundle of nettles and throwing himself forward. His fist connected with Stine's jaw hard enough to have the other man stumbling back, but Joe barely felt the impact, he was so lit up with rage. He hit him again, and Stines went down, and Joe followed after him, got on top of him and managed to smash his knuckles against his teeth one more time before Keller threw him off, backhanding him carelessly as he helped Stines back to his feet.  
"You're crazy," he was saying. "You really are crazy."  
"Call the police," Stines stuttered out, blood and spittle dripping down his chin. Joe picked himself up from where he had stumbled back and half-fallen against the wall; Keller was a bruiser of a man, and his casually flung arm had knocked him backwards with more force than Joe with all his fury would ever be able to muster. He snatched up the bundle of dried nettle and ran out the door.  
No one had ever accused him of being an optimist; Joe had made plans for a scenario like this more than a year ago. So when he pushed open the door leading out of the apartment building and to the street, he knew where he was going. He stepped through, shoving the rotting shed door out of his way. It was slick with mildew, the old boards streaked green and gray. Joe gave a quick, cursory survey of his surroundings, then looked towards the house.  
It still seemed abandoned, just the same as it had the first time he had come across it. He had discovered it by chance one day while looking for nettle, and had filed the image of it away in his mind in case he ever needed somewhere to go in a hurry. It wasn't any kind of long-term solution, but it would do for now. Joe stepped up onto the broken, partially caved-in porch, and swung the door open cautiously. It was possible another squatter had come along, or fuck, some kind of wild animal could have moved in for all he knew.  
But there was nothing, just a dim room, the smell of must and still air. Joe closed the door behind him and dropped his pack and the bundle of stalks to the floor. His heart had slowed a bit, but all he had to do was picture Stines' face, and it picked right back up, the blood pounding in his veins. That bastard. Joe paced around the room, wanting to shout, wanting to hit something else. What was he supposed to do now? Just when shit was starting to fall into something of a rhythm. He had struggled over that fucking loom nearly all summer before finally getting the hang of it, and had spent the last two months dividing his free time between weaving and clomping around outside collecting the next batch of nettle. It had actually begun to feel manageable to him, started to feel like something he could handle, and now this. _It's impossible_ , some hateful voice inside whispered at him, and Joe scowled and pushed the thought away. Like fuck it was. He went back to his pack and stood looking down at it, taking stock.  
The biggest loss was the nettle. He wasn't going to think about the hours he had spent walking around in the heat harvesting the stuff, and he definitely wasn't going to think about the number of nights he had spent subjecting his hands to the now familiar painful work of stripping them down to their stalks. He had a decent amount dried and ready to be broken down to their fibers, but Keller had tossed more than half of what Joe had stockpiled. It wasn't too late in the year to find more, but that would mean more time wasted, and more long weeks of swollen, nearly useless hands. But he didn't have a choice. Joe bit down hard on his lip and glared at the door.   
Maybe it was time to rethink shit. He had been wearing himself out anyways, spending his days at the factory and his nights with his real work. Maybe he should stay here for a bit; he could scrounge up odd jobs as he needed them, and give more time to breaking this damn curse. He had less than four years left, and just one shirt and the beginnings of another to show for it. How he lived was the least of his worries; as long as he had enough to eat and a safe place to work, that was all that mattered. Joe looked around the house. It would be a fucking miserable winter, but the place was sound enough, he would live.  
_It's fine_ , he assured himself. _Something was gonna have to give eventually_. This didn't change anything important. He nodded firmly, forced his teeth loose from his lip, licking over the warm copper tang of blood. Then he picked a loose board up from the floor and smashed it against an empty door frame until it splintered apart in his hands.


	6. Chapter 6

Joe hadn't known that it was possible for a person to be startled out of sleep because they had noticed that they were too comfortable, but swear to God, that was what woke him up. He was too warm, too lax and boneless. It wasn't safe, and he jerked himself upright before he even really understood that he had been sleeping, his neck protesting sharply against the forceful movement.  
Sunlight was pouring in through the pair of large windows, bright white rectangles falling across the floor and the bed. Goddamn it. He had slept all night. Joe leaned his head back and thumped it angrily against the wall. Then he swung up off the bed and stood, taking stock of himself. His neck hurt, a dull burn that he figured wasn't going anywhere for a while. His hands were still a little stiff, but they were recovering, it had been a couple days since he had worked with nettle. Otherwise he was sore, his whole body one big bruise, but that was to be expected after a day like yesterday. It reminded Joe of the way he had felt at Toccoa, when the purpose of each day had been to push them to their physical limit. But he was clear-headed, the manic fear and anger that had kept him moving the previous day coiled up and settled in its usual place, somewhere along the base of his throat. Joe fingered the fabric of his shirt, stiff with dried salt, his own sweat probably just as much to blame as his dunk in the sea. He pulled the collar open and ducked his nose down into the opening, gave a testing sniff. Jesus Christ. He needed a shower.  
The first door he opened when he went downstairs led to a bedroom, and Joe started to close it again, but then he saw the door hanging half-open on the other side of the room, the white rim of a tub visible through the gap. He stepped in, closing the door behind him. He doubted that this was the room where David slept; there was a still, untouched quality to it, that nameless feeling a room could give off when no one had been breathing its air. The water sputtered when Joe turned the knobs, like the pipes had forgotten how to route shit this way, then gave a thick cough, and started running clear and plentiful. Joe turned the heat up as high as he could stand it.   
Fuck yes. Joe's throat locked to keep the groan contained in his chest. He let the water run along his back, careful to keep the spray clear of his neck, because that asshole Redding had made it clear he shouldn't let the bandage get wet yet. He could feel his muscles slowly loosening under the onslaught of heat. When was the last time he'd had anything other than a cold, hurried shower? When had he last...no. He turned around, dipped his head beneath the spray. If he couldn't enjoy one goddamn thing without playing that game, better to not do it at all, and he was enjoying this fucking shower. He pushed the creeping thoughts away, tried to think of something harmless. He wondered if David was still sleeping, pictured him briefly the way he had been last night on the kitchen floor, sluggish with fatigue, his eyelids drooping, then figured he was probably safer not thinking about that either, naked and relaxed like he was.  
His clothes were filthy, and he didn't have anything else with him, so Joe left them lying where they had fallen and made a quick search of the dresser for something to wear. It was obvious that no one had stayed in this room in a while, because he didn't turn up anything other than a worn pair of flannel slacks. They were too loose, but Joe pulled them on anyway and left the room, on the hunt for a shirt.  
There was a door across the hall from him; he opened it and peered inside. This must be David's room; it was big and sparsely furnished, but the bed was unmade, and there was a faint scent in the air that Joe already associated with the guy, sharp brine and bright heat. Joe started across the room, towards the dresser, stopping short when he caught sight of himself in the mirror hanging between the windows.  
It was like looking at a funhouse mirror, a distorted reflection of his personal, admittedly hazy image of himself. He could count his own ribs, Joe realized, with a shot of distant pity for the man in the mirror, the same feeling he might have for a stray underfed dog that he happened across. His eyes were sunken in his too-pale face, and what with the bandage wound around his neck like it was the only thing keeping his head connected to his body, it was no wonder they had tried to send him upstate. Jesus. He looked away, his hand coming up reflexively to try and fix his hair, and continued on to the closet. He grabbed the first shirt he saw and pulled it on, and of course it was too big and loose, just like the pants, and a moment ago that hadn't mattered, but now for some goddamn reason he felt ashamed.  
_Breakfast_ , he thought, shaking off the stupid, useless feeling. _Might as well pack it away while you can_. He left the room and went downstairs.  
A door beside the kitchen that he hadn't noticed the night before was hanging open, and when Joe glanced through it in passing he saw David sitting at the table inside. No, not sitting. Joe stopped and stepped into the room. He was asleep, slumped down across the table's surface, a half-filled ashtray in front of his folded up arms, a burned out cigarette still held loosely between his slack fingers. Joe circled around him, eyeing the pack of cigarettes at his elbow. He could go for a smoke. He sat down across from him and slid the pack across the table, taking two and tucking the extra one behind his ear. He lit the cigarette and slumped forward, his eyes sliding shut with pleasure. It was the little shit, like his ma always said. Joe opened his eyes and looked at David, shifting sideways in his chair to get a better view of his face.  
Did people actually look like this in real life? All lush colors and firm, full shapes? Joe thought of the thin slip of a human he had seen in the mirror, and almost hated the guy in front of him for being his inverse. If Joe was a shaded in sketch, then David was an oil painting, like one of those portraits in an art museum. He was well-fed, strong-limbed, handsome. This huge house, the kitchen stuffed to the brim with food; the guy was living a charmed life, the kind of fairy-tale a person actually wanted to be caught in. But there were grim lines around his mouth, and his brow was pinched in a frown even while he slept. Joe didn't bother worrying about how the rest of the world was getting by, especially not these days; he could hardly handle his own problems, much less someone else's, but he found himself staring at David's softly downturned mouth and wondering what his deal was. David's eyes flickered open. Even his eyes were ridiculous. Joe leaned on his elbow and took another long draw of his cigarette.  
"You're here." He woke up neatly, not gradually or piecemeal like most people. A fleeting look of confusion, then clearing eyes and a lifting head. The thick wool of his voice was the only sign that he had just been sleeping. "I have to admit, I half expected you to slip out in the night. I wouldn't have blamed you." He glanced around the room, then lifted a hand to pick at the corner of his eye, frowning in consternation at the cigarette between his knuckles. "You think you might stay a while?"  
_No. I just want some breakfast_. But there was a niggling thought in the back of Joe's mind, one that he suspected had been there since the moment he woke up, surprised by the careless sprawl of his own body. But it was stupid. He finished his cigarette, then plucked the stub from David's fingers, dropping them both into the ashtray. He got up and went to the kitchen, helping himself to the loaf of bread and the old toaster sitting on the counter. Put some butter and honey on top, and that was Joe's kind of breakfast, something meltingly warm and sweet to start the day off. Joe munched on his toast and wandered around the downstairs, ignoring David as he trailed after him.   
A house should tell you something about the person living in it, but Joe had the feeling that wasn't the case with this house, this person. The rooms were too untouched, too impersonal; pretty, empty spaces. Joe could draw a couple of conclusions from that, from the fact that David had a nice soft bed but had fallen asleep in the kitchen nook, from the way he had sat so easily on the floor beside him the night before, and from the vaguely chagrined expression he currently wore as he watched Joe look his home over. Joe stepped outside. Now this was the right way to enjoy the outdoors. To hell with stumbling through undergrowth and clumps of tangling bushes, with walking through cobwebs and picking bugs out of you hair and mouth. Give him a porch and a little distance, and hey, all these trees and shit were actually kind of nice to look at. It probably came from living in cities all his life, this aversion to nature, or maybe from his oma's stories. Leave civilization behind, go wandering in places that you'd been warned away from, and who knows what you might uncover? Monsters and witches, all the ancient dangers of the world that mankind thought they were free of. They were still lurking out there, waiting.  
"You're interesting." David had been watching him; he looked embarrassed for a moment when Joe glanced his way, then went back to staring with a discerning gaze. "You don't have any trouble communicating what you're thinking, when you want to. Proof that language is a superfluous, human construct. But the rest of the time it's like," he tilted his head, propping his hip against the balustrade. "Like looking down, and you can see that the land below you is laid out in patterns, but it's impossible to tell what they might mean."  
Yeah, okay. Whatever. Joe made a negating motion with his hand, then gestured up and back, towards the house. _Enough about me. Tell me about this place_. David frowned, following the motion of his hand. "The house? It's a summer home. My father plans to sell it, actually. Apparently they've barely used it since I've been gone, but when I told him that I wanted to spend the winter here he agreed to hold off." He smiled, leaned in towards Joe like he was imparting a secret, or a joke. "They haven't worked out what to do with me yet." There was something cold in his voice, something glacial in his eyes.   
_You talk too much_. And he was too close. Joe planted a hand on his chest and shoved him back a step, so that he bumped into the rectangular wooden column of the porch. David blinked at him and looked down at his hand. It was ugly, like his oma's had been; spinning was hard on the hands, and then there were the scars. Joe felt a surge of that same senseless shame that had come over him earlier, and jerked his hand away. If he'd had a pocket he would have stuck it there, but all he had were these fucking flannel pants, so he pulled the cigarette from behind his ear instead and fiddled with it.  
"Here." David pulled the lighter out of his pocket and offered it to him. Joe snatched it and turned half away, shielding himself in case any of his unsettled thoughts were making themselves known on his face. He gave himself a moment, then turned back to David and tossed him the lighter. "I'm sorry if I." David stopped, putting the lighter away and looking out across the lawn with a rueful expression. "I don't know what the hell I'm talking about anymore. I suppose that's what happens when you don't talk to anybody but yourself. You know?" Joe knew all too well. Maybe that was why David was so different from other people he'd come across since he stopped speaking. People didn't bother talking to him much, once they learned that he couldn't talk back. It was as if losing his voice made him less visible, less real. But for a guy like David, who it seemed had been storing up his words and thoughts similar to the way Joe had been, maybe having someone to speak to was all that mattered, regardless of whether or not they answered him. Joe thought back to what David had said earlier, rapped his knuckles on the balustrade to get his attention. He pointed at David, then at the house, raising his brow questioningly.  
"What? How long have I been here?"  
_No._ He tried again; David, the distant scenery, the house. _You, gone, where? Come on, idiot, we were doing so well._   
"Can you write it down?" No, he couldn't fucking write it down. Joe stuck his cigarette in the corner of his mouth and grabbed David by the shoulders. He gave him a shake, then frog marched him off the porch and down the drive. He gestured to the space between them and the house, then propelled him back to the porch, David staring open-mouthed at him all the while. He gestured again. _You went away, where?_  
"Why was I gone?" Finally, fuck. Joe nodded, shifting the cigarette in his mouth and taking a long, annoyed drag. "I fought in Europe. My mother didn't want me to go, well, neither of them did, but my father mostly couldn't understand why I wouldn't let him buy me a commission. We used to spend half the summer at this house, but my mother didn't want to come back until we could all be here together again." He made a face, shifted uncomfortably. "It wasn't really fair to John and Anne. I would have said as much, if anybody had bothered to tell me. Then I came home, and they had all found other things to do with their summers." He shook his head, gave Joe another stiff, distant smile. "It was bound to happen eventually. We're not children anymore."  
_Why are you here alone, if you miss them?_ A house didn't matter. Joe would take hell and high water with his family over one more goddamn day alone if he had the choice. David looked sharply at him, and then away, as if Joe had spoken, had said something shocking.  
"Anyway. That's where I've been. What about you?" He turned back to him, light eyes that cut without meaning to. "Did you serve?" Joe shook his head no. "4-F? Because of your voice?" Joe didn't answer, stared flatly back at him instead. Just because he couldn't tell the truth didn't mean he had to start telling a bunch of lies. "Well. It's over now, thank God. The future is bright." He gave Joe a bleak smile, then looked at him seriously. "You know, I really do hope you stay. It's nice to have someone else around." Joe smirked, and David's expression warmed, grew amused. "What? Am I talking too much again?" _Yeah you are_. But maybe Joe liked it. "Just think about it. The island can be crowded over the summer, but I've been told it's much quieter the rest of the year. That's what I came here for. If you're looking for that too, why not stay a while?" There were currents under his words, more than one invitation being extended. Joe stared at him, and David's eyes dropped, his mouth opening and closing while he fumbled for something to say. Jesus, it was like the guy had never made a pass at someone before. Maybe he hadn't. Someone that good-looking, the offers probably fell in his lap. _Sorry, sweetheart. Maybe the next time around, if we get one_. But Joe turned and looked at the house, thinking.  
It was a big house, with lots of doors. Passages and passages, more escape routes than he could hope for. That was the thing about the doors; they always took you exactly where you wanted to go. Back when they were kids, he and Al had never had any real destination in mind when they walked through a door; they just held on to a thought and let the door take them there. And yesterday, when Joe had flung the door open and tossed himself through, what had he asked for? A safe place. And sure, he'd ended up in the ocean with a fucking apex predator, but then this guy had pulled him out. By that logic, beside David was the safest place that Joe could be. But maybe he was seeing signs and portents where none existed. He glanced over at David, shifting awkwardly back and forth behind him, his arms folded defensively across his chest. His oma had always been superstitious, and these days Joe put more stock in the crazy shit that had come out of her mouth, for obvious reasons. "Mother Frost is shaking out her bed," she would say when it snowed. During bad storms, she always said that the Wild Hunt was riding the winds. Joe didn't know what to trust, if not the doors and his own gut feeling. He turned around, put a hard hand on David's elbow.  
_Look at me_. He tried to put it all into his eyes and his face, tried to tell him the truth, as much as he could without words or context. _I'm not here for you, I don't have it in me to be here for anyone but myself. You got that?_ David stared at him, measuring, sifting through him.   
"I don't expect anything from you," he said evenly. _Jesus Christ, Oma,_ Joe thought. _Don't let him be another chess piece in this evil fucking game_. But if he had to be one, then let him be Joe's, to move across the board, to sacrifice or preserve.

* * *

  
It took nearly another year for Joe to start suspecting that the witch was fucking with him.   
The winter had been every bit as awful as he had predicted, in an unheated house slowly falling to shambles, but he had gotten through it. He wore every layer of clothing that he owned and warmed his belly with gin and coffee and told himself stories in his head while he spun, had long, winding conversations with people who weren't really there while he wove.   
_So what happens when you die, huh? What's the truth?_  
 _What do you think will happen?_ The snap of a bony finger. _Then that is what will happen! How many times must I say it? There is no end to the possibilities. You are the only limit._  
 _You know what I figure happens when you die? Nothing, you're dead._  
 _Wow, don't hold back on us._  
 _Heaven or something, right? Do you really think we just blink out?_  
 _Hey, maybe we come back. A lot of people believe that, you know._  
 _What, and just do it all over again? Boring._  
 _Nobody remembers being born, and nobody remembers dying. I bet that means something._  
 _What the hell are you talking about?_  
 _Listen to me, Joseph_. His mother, her firm voice that brooked no argument, her sure hands. _There are great halls far below the earth where our people gather. You will journey down, but when you reach your destination you will find that the halls have no roof, that they extend up to the heavens. They are beautiful, and they are waiting for you. But they do not matter, do you see? Living, that is what matters. Your life at this moment_. That felt too real, felt like something he couldn't have come up with by himself, and Joe stopped thinking about it. Most nights he was half-convinced he was going crazy, from the quiet and the cold.  
Losing it or not, he got a lot done that winter. He worked the bare amount he needed to keep himself fed, hopping from town to town to pick up what odd jobs he could find. Work wasn't always easy to come by, but Joe didn't mind being paid in surplus perishables, and that made people more willing to take him on for a day or two of labor. The rest of the time he holed up inside the house, or on the front porch on the rare warm day, and by the spring he had three completed shirts to show for it. On the downside, he had run through all his supplies, and had months to wait before he could get his hands on more nettle, but Joe figured if he busted his ass over the summer, he might manage to save up enough to get him through the next winter without having to look for more work. He could give all his time to what was important, and maybe by next spring he would have five shirts, and this nightmare would be over.   
But work, over the course of the summer, got harder to find instead of easier. It didn't make sense to Joe. Wasn't there too much shit to do and not enough daylight hours to do it in, out here in the country? That was how people had always talked before. But he got treated with suspicion wherever he went, got run off of properties and spoken to like he was some kind of criminal for needing work, for not having a voice. He started ranging further out, trying to run beyond the cloud of distrust that seemed to trail along behind him.  
He had gotten lucky one day, found an orchard owner willing to hire him for a week thinning trees. Joe worked all day in sunlight thick as a sheet, took his pay, and trudged along a dusty country road until he spotted the remains of an abandoned shack in the distance. He cut across the field towards it, relieved that he wouldn't have to walk all the way to the nearest town to find a door back home.  
When he stepped through, his first thought was that he had fucked it up somehow, let his thoughts wonder and walked through the wrong door, because this couldn't possibly be the right place, because it was on fire. Then his already stinging eyes landed on his bundled up bedroll in the corner, and the haversack leaned up beneath the window beside it, and he wasn't thinking about anything anymore.  
The shirts, he had to get to the shirts. He kept them tucked away in an old chest that he had found in one of the bedrooms and dragged downstairs. The loom was in there too, his oma's distaff and spindle. His life was in that fucking chest. Joe turned, pulling his shirt up over his nose, hunching low to try to avoid the smoke. That side of the room was engulfed in flames, and it should have distressed him, or at least given him pause, but since he had stopped thinking it barely registered. There was a roaring inside him, around him, even the goddamn fire was allowed a voice. He tossed himself through its moving curtains, heat that licked and lingered along his skin.  
The chest was burning on all sides. Joe stumbled towards it, threw his weight against the side of it. It wobbled, but kept its feet. He did it again, and this time it toppled over, the lid falling open, the contents spilling out across the burning floor. One of the shirts fell straight into the fire and Joe nearly screamed, felt the sound jolt up from his stomach and lodge, riddled with sharp, painful points, in his chest. He scrabbled across the floor for the rest, tucking the remaining two shirts beneath his own, against his heart, snatching up the loom and spindle, scalding pain along his hand as he plucked the distaff from where it had rolled into the flames. He couldn't breathe anymore, he could barely see, but somehow he managed to get back to his feet and leap through the fire again. He had enough of his mind left to remember to grab the haversack, and then he fell through the front door and off the porch, dropping everything and dancing around like a mad fucker, because his pants were on goddamn fire. When he got it out, he dropped to the ground like a stone and just lay there, hacking and heaving for breath. The house burned on in front of him; when he had recovered some Joe got up and stuffed everything into his bag, retreating further away, into the woods.  
How the hell had it started? The place didn't have any electricity, and even in the winter Joe had done all his cooking outdoors. There wasn't any reason for it, it didn't make any goddamn sense. Someone had to have started it, but Joe had been squatting in that house for close to a year and had never come across anyone else. No one knew that he was out there, and if they did, why would they care about that fact enough to want to burn the place down? Except these days it seemed most people eyed him like they'd almost rather he didn't exist, and that was fucking strange too. Joe expected people to not give a shit, but he didn't expect the raw malevolence that got thrown his way more often than not.  
A sudden wave of exhaustion and fear had him stopping, collapsing back down to the ground. It was funny how he hadn't felt afraid before, only blankly desperate. But now he was fucking terrified, and he couldn't quite put a name to why. Joe stared down at his hand, shaking and already blistering up in response to where he had stuck it into the fire to retrieve the distaff. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but he figured that was a good thing; he'd heard somewhere that it was when a burn didn't hurt that you should be really worried. He leaned forward and braced his head on his good hand, forced himself to think.  
Maybe he was going crazy, maybe he was paranoid. But maybe he was right. It was like a shadow had been cast over the world, starting with the day Stines had kicked him out of his apartment. Good and evil was in every man, his father always said, and these days Joe could see more evil than good on the faces of the people around him. He had thought it was him, thought it was his silence and isolation that made everyone seem so hard and gray, but maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was her, the witch. Joe didn't know what game she and his oma were playing, but he knew that they were playing for greater stakes than they had in the past. It stood to reason that she had more to lose if the game didn't go her way. It sounded nuts, but then, the fact that he was weaving a bunch of shirts to break a curse on his family was goddamn insane, but it was still reality.   
If it was true, if she was working against him, what the hell was he supposed to do about it? He had already been living hand to mouth, Joe didn't know how much lower he could go than where he already was.   
_Aw, come on, use your imagination. You could go further down, there isn't a point you wouldn't sink to._  
Fuck, he would do anything, cheat and maim and steal, whatever he had to, and the guilt could come after, so long as he got his family back. So she was maneuvering for the outcome she wanted, playing clever and dirty. Well, he could do that too. If she thought he was going to keep on like some sweet silent princess in one of those stories, honor-bound to the rules no matter how low and petty his enemy, she really had picked the wrong family, the wrong grandchild. Joe thought about the shirt he had lost, the way the fire had gobbled it right up. The hours of work and pain that had gone into it, that she had cost him. Everything she had cost him.   
_You don't know a thing about humans,_ he thought at her, feeling rising up in him, thick and vicious. _You don't what we can do, when we hate someone enough._


	7. Chapter 7

Joe held off until the following morning to step away. He woke from another night of strangely deep and restorative sleep, got up and put his new boots on, then grabbed his haversack and an empty pillowcase and opened his bedroom door, emerging between scraggly trees clinging to the edge of a stream. He ducked down by habit, glancing around. Every time he came here it was a little different, and this was no exception. It was just a strip of undeveloped land stuck between two suburbs, and it wouldn't be here for much longer, if the encroaching houses and sounds of civilization were anything to go by. Hell, it might be gone by next year. But he wouldn't be coming back next year, one way or the other.  
_What the fuck are you talking about?_ He thought angrily at himself. _There's only one way this is ending_. He stood and started walking along the streambed, towards the patch of nettle that he had been cultivating for the past five years. He had been careful before to not take too much, with the idea that he would need to come back the following summer to harvest it again, but that wasn't a concern anymore, seeing as this was his last chance. So he took it all when he got there, using his hands and his pocket knife to grip the stalks by the handful and cut them down. Was it weird that the pain felt good these days, proof that he was still in this? _See?_ He thought grouchily at them, like they were listening, like they weren't thousands of miles away and were capable of thinking at all. _I'm here, I'm getting closer. Just keep eating weeds or whatever the fuck it is you've been doing. And Pop, any time you feel like coming to your senses and getting the hell away from that witch, that'd be great, I could use some help over here_. Not that he could actually help him, not like anybody could. It was Joe's curse to break.  
After he had stuffed as much nettle as he could into the pillowcase, he left the swathe of overgrowth shielding the stream and started making his way towards the not-so-distant-anymore houses. He would rather use a door in town, not chance scaring the shit out of some family sitting down for breakfast, but walking all the way to town would add another hour on to this excursion, and Joe had lost the last of his qualms years ago. So when he reached the first house, he didn't feel anything but distantly annoyed when he saw the family emerge, the father on his way to work in a cheap suit, the mother in a day gown, a child on her hip. They hadn't noticed Joe yet, the wife trailing after her husband, the husband nodding absently to whatever she was saying. But they sure as hell noticed him when he stepped across the row of neatly planted flowers and started up towards their door.  
"Can I help you?" The man said, stunned into politeness. Joe climbed the porch steps. "Hey! Hey, stop!"  
"Robert, do something," the woman half-shrieked, like a dame from a comic book. Catch one of Joe's sisters ever sounding like that.   
"Buddy, you had better-" But Joe didn't hear the rest, because he was through the door and gone, walking down a gently sloping hill.   
There wasn't any danger of being spotted popping out of nowhere, not here. It was a remote spot, one of many that Joe had rooted out and marked in memory. He didn't commit shit to paper anymore. His mind was the only safe place, and some days he wondered if even that was secure from prying. He didn't let himself get his hopes up as he approached the water; he'd gotten used to revisiting spots he had thought to be secret, only to find his work destroyed. But this time, when he reached the bank of the pond and stepped down into the cattails, it was all still there, right where he had hidden it. Stripped nettle stalks, weighed down with stones, retted and ready to be dried. Further proof that the bitch wasn't omniscient. With this, and the fresh nettle he had just gathered, Joe figured he should have plenty of material to finish the last two shirts. So long as he could stay ahead of Graf. He lifted the stalks free of the water, grimacing at their smell and their soft slime feel. Then he went back the way he came, the pillowcase clutched in one arm, the other loaded down with a sopping, stinking pile of stalks. It was going to be a long, hot walk. But at least he was back at it, wasn't wasting any more time.  
The day before, Joe hadn't done anything besides let David talk at him, let him show him around the house and try to find him some clothes that actually fit. When he couldn't find any, David insisted that they go into town to pick a couple of things up for him, and Joe didn't even pretend to protest. They had already established that he was using the guy for his own convenience, so why not? It was getting old, having to hold his pants up by a fistful of fabric.   
"Do you need anything else?" David had asked him, as he paid for shoes and a couple pairs of jeans. The woman behind the counter was giving Joe a distrusting look, and Joe was trying not to read too much into it. He started to shake his head no, but then he noticed the store across the street. He tugged on David's elbow.   
Ten minutes later, Joe walked out with a pack of Chesterfields tucked into his pocket and a stack of candy bars clutched greedily in his hand. He peeled one open right there on the sidewalk, ignoring the way David watched him, his bemused half-smile. He bit into it and stared at the road, the scant traffic that marked the town as cozily small time. It was weird, doing regular shit again. Disconcerting to be reminded that life could be sweet, that all it took was a little company. He glanced over at David, and couldn't help the way his lip curled up when he saw how he was grinning at him.  
"Have you seen much of the island?" Joe shrugged. "Let's go for a drive, I'll show you around." He should get back to the house, get back to work. But instead he nodded, and took another bite of his Hershey bar. _Wouldn't hurt to get the lay of the land_ , he assured himself. But the fucked up truth was he was just that desperate for a few more minutes of normalcy.  
So they drove around the island. Joe stuck his arm out the window and played with the pushing wind, letting it drag his hand up and back, the way a wing might catch and lift. It was good to smell the ocean again; he hadn't realized that he missed it. David, surprisingly, stayed quiet, only speaking to point out the stray landmark. The sun was setting by the time they got back to the house, and Joe hadn't done much of anything all day, but for some reason he was fucking exhausted. He joined David in the room off the kitchen, the window open to let in the rustling breeze, the two of them posted across the table from each other, the ashtray between them their meeting ground.  
"It's perfect," David said eventually. Joe looked up from where he had been tracing a scar on the table with his thumbnail, gave him a curious glance. David motioned towards the window with his cigarette. "The quiet. I can't stand actual silence. You know, the kind where your own thoughts seem to echo? There were times, back in-" he cut himself off with a sudden shake of his head. "Have you ever lain awake at night and heard your own blood moving through your veins?" He asked, turning to look at Joe. "That's the kind of silence I hate."  
 _Too quiet in that room of yours, huh?_ Joe looked him over, the steady, unwavering gaze, the grimly set lips. He seemed too young for his expression, but maybe that was what war did to men. Marked them in ways you couldn't see, couldn't begin to understand. Joe thought about Easy, those kids that he had thought he would be looking out for. How many of them made it through? Would Joe recognize them today if they passed on the street, shit, would they recognize him? He waited for David to finish his cigarette, then kicked his leg, gesturing towards the door with his chin when he looked at him.  
"Oh. Go ahead. I'll stay up a bit."  
_No, you're done_. He got up and walked around the table, shook the back of David's chair until he turned around in his seat to look up at him.  
"What?" He asked irritably. "I'm not tired." _You sound like a damn kid_. Joe grabbed him by his ear, and David yelped. "What the hell, Lieb! Alright, fuck." _That's what I thought_. Joe smirked as he shoved him down the hall and up the stairs. David's expression, when he turned around in his room to glare at Joe, could only be described as pouty. Joe pantomimed it back to him, pushing his lip out, lowering his chin, then grinned when David gave a low, begrudging laugh. He gave him one final shove towards his bed, then stepped around him and went to his windows, opening them up and letting the soft murmuring sounds of the night roll in. David was right, it was a good kind of quiet, the kind a person could breathe in. He turned back to him and spread his arms. _See? What's so hard about that?_   
"Thank you," David said hesitantly, staring at him. Joe nodded to him and left, taking the stairs up to his own room. He double checked the haversack and its contents, then tossed it on the bed and went and opened his own windows. He hated the quiet, too.  
Joe was in a bad mood by the time he trudged his way out of the woods and back to civilization. It was too damn hot around here, who could stand to live here? Overgrown fallow stretches gave way to crop fields being worked by men and machinery, who stopped and stared at him as he passed by. He found the road and followed the ridged marks left in the dirt by the passage of farming equipment, until they led him to a handful of loosely grouped buildings; a couple houses, a shared silo and barn. Joe spied a metal-sided shed on the back side of one of the homes and circled around to it. He pictured David as he put his hand to the rusted door, burning like a furnace with the growing heat, the hinges shrieking out a protest, and walked straight into the guy's chest as he came through the front door of the house. David stepped hastily backwards, his mouth falling open.  
"Oh," he said stupidly. "You're." His eyes jumped over Joe, his expression strangely rattled. "What are you?"  
_Full sentences, babe_. David lifted his hand, and Joe saw that he was holding his stash of candy bars, his now half-empty pack of Chesterfields. He nodded towards them, shot David a questioning look.  
"Well, I thought you left," David blurted out, then managed to somehow look even more flustered. "I was going to try to catch up with you." Joe saw the moment the stench of the retted nettle hit him; his mouth twisted and his eyes snapped towards Joe's laden down arms. "What is that?" He asked, horrified. Joe pushed past him, ignoring the skittishly pleased feeling in his stomach. He walked through the house and straight out the back door, dropping the pillowcase and haversack beside the steps. For as big and fancy as the place was, there really wasn't much to get excited about out here, just a small, neatly bricked patio. But it would work well enough. Joe crouched down and started spreading the wet stalks out along its edge.   
"So." David appeared beside him, above him. "You went out to collect weeds. Rotting weeds." Joe glanced up at him. _That's right_. "What do you plan to do with them? You don't cook them, do you?" Joe snorted softly and ignored him, and David didn't speak again, just stood and watched him work. When he was done, he stood up and looked David in the eye, gestured with his arm towards the house. _Go inside, why don't you?_  
"Why?" David asked suspiciously. Joe looked away, annoyed. _'Cause I don't want you fucking staring at me, that's why_. But the guy wasn't leaving. Joe stepped around him, grabbing the pillowcase and plopping down onto the warm bricks. He set his jaw, willed his features to stony blankness. It was awkward, annoying, knowing that David was standing over his shoulder observing. Joe reached into the pillowcase and grabbed the first stalk.  
The truth was he'd sort of stopped feeling it, these past couple of years. Pain had morphed into fuel for his hate, the churning, combusting thing that was eating up all the space in his chest. When his hands burned, when the skin blistered and burst, it just drove him on, helped keep him hard and sharp. So it must be David's fault, somehow, that it hurt again, hurt nearly as much as it had that first year. Joe bit down on the inside of his cheek and pictured their faces, tried to summon up their voices. Fuck, why was it so hard to remember the pitch and pacing of their voices? Was he really forgetting? He ripped the leaves free savagely, furious with himself.  
Motion in the corner of his eye, the soft tread of feet as David circled around to crouch in front of him. Joe could feel him stare, feel him trying to work it out. David reached for one of the stalks, and Joe snapped a hand out, grabbing him by the wrist. He looked up at him, shook his head. David stared intently back.  
"Why not?" _Because it hurts, idiot_. Joe pushed his hand away, turned his own over to demonstrate the patching red. David looked at him, a searing gaze, then at his hand, the nettle. He reached out again towards the plant, and this time Joe rolled his eyes and didn't try to stop him. He stripped another stalk and watched David run a lightly testing finger along the leaves, watched his mouth tighten with surprise. He touched the plant again, moving his hand along the stalk this time, then pulled away and dug his opposite thumb into the palm in an attempt to relieve the itching burn.   
"Lieb," he said, low and halting. "Why are you doing this?" Joe brought his teeth together in a grimacing bite to keep his lips from twisting down. "Was Redding right? You're hurting yourself on purpose?"  
_No, Jesus Christ_. Joe glared at him, then looked away, gave a futile shrug. _Well, yes. But not like that_.   
"It explains the scars, at least. Except this one." David tapped the side of Joe's hand, the edge of the burn scar. It hadn't healed well, what with Joe not really taking the time to treat it like he maybe should have. The skin was pink, raised like a welt but weirdly smooth. "How did that happen?"  
_What are you not getting? This ain't show and tell_. Even if he could talk, even if it wasn't part of the curse, Joe didn't think he would tell any of it to anyone. He didn't want to relive it, didn't want to try to put it to words. It would stay locked in his head and his throat, the same way every story and thought was these days. It was easier that way.  
"It looks like you were burned." Joe shot him a sharp look, but David was staring down at his hands. "You grabbed something hot. Something metal?" He settled back on his heels, rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "An orphanage was on fire, and the children were stuck behind a burning hot metal door, and you opened it and rescued them." Joe snorted, and David grinned, slow, something inexplicably magnetic in the upward slide of his lips. "Too far-fetched? Maybe it's not a burn at all." He had a look in his eye, challenging, like he was trying to top himself. "Maybe you ripped the skin off in a bizarre accident involving a rope, a windjammer, and a storm at sea."  
_Beautiful. Another story-teller_. But it was nice to listen to something new, a voice other than the one in his head, the one that could only repeat old tales that he knew by heart. Joe stripped one final stalk, then stood, his hands alight, each nerve a separate shriek. He had only worked through half the bag, but he knew his own limits by now, knew when his hands couldn't take any more. He tossed the pillowcase down beside the steps, then stared hard at David until he was sure he had his attention. He gestured to the bag, the drying stalks, made a forceful gesture. _All this, don't touch it, understand?_  
"Alright," David said, still grinning warily. "There's no need to threaten."  
_Okay, come on, then_. Joe gathered up the pile of stripped stalks, a scattered stinging starting up along his bare forearms, and gestured to David to follow him into the house. He went straight for the lone bedroom on the main floor, the done up one with the huge bed that he assumed was used by David's parents. It had its own bathroom that Joe had already scouted out. He dropped the plants into the tub, then turned around to look at David, standing in the doorway. Joe indicated him with his hands, an up and down motion.  
"I don't understand." Joe pointed to his shirt, his trousers, mimed taking them off. "You." David stared incredulously at him, his hand coming up to brace against the side of the door. "You want me to strip?"  
_What? No_. Shit, wouldn't that be something. The beginning of a fantasy flashed into Joe's mind, and he shook it away with an angry sweep of his hands. He pointed at the shower, the toilet and sink, David. _Do you use this fucking bathroom?_  
"Oh." The mortification crawled across David's face, starting with his eyes and working its way out. "Uh, no. I use the one down the hall from my room." Joe nodded and turned his attention back to the tub, filling it up with water and opening the window in preparation for the smell. David was still in the doorway, looking like he wanted to escape his own house. Joe came to stand in front of him. He tipped his chin up when David met his eyes, smirked at him. _Would you really have gotten naked for me?_  
"You know, you're fairly mouthy, for someone who doesn't talk," David said, annoyed, and fuck if that didn't make Joe want to laugh again. Jesus, it was good to be understood, even if only partially. He knew it wasn't smart, knew it was one of the more stupid things he could do, but he did it anyway, leaned in towards David and let his smirk tilt up into a leer. _What would you have taken off first? I'm thinking the pants_. He had the feeling it had been a while for David, could picture him shucking hastily out of his trousers, fumblingly eager. Joe wouldn't try to slow him down, considering that it had been a long goddamn time for him too. It felt like years since he'd even thought of it, thought of anything other than the curse.  
The curse. Joe looked away from David's heated stare, from the torrid jumble of exasperation and confused lust that he didn't seem to feel the need to hide. Probably he didn't realize he was showing it, didn't realize how open his own expressions were. Now that was dangerous, more dangerously reckless than Joe had ever been. Except for right now, standing around in a bathroom, letting himself get distracted by a pair of blue eyes while the lives of his entire family hung on the balance. Jesus Christ, what the fuck was wrong with him? He shoved past David, stomped outside to retrieve his haversack. Then he went upstairs, dumping its contents out on his bed. The broken-down loom, his oma's distaff and spindle. A nearly used up skein of yarn and a clump of unspun fiber. And three misshapen, poorly stitched shirts. More than four years, and this was all he had to show for it. The end was months away and he still had so far to go. What the fuck did anything matter, against that? Nothing else could matter. Joe turned back to the door and slammed it shut.

* * *

  
He couldn't fight her, couldn't kill her. If she was keeping tabs on him, watching his progress, then he would have to become harder to track. After all, he didn't know the limits of her power, but he knew his own. The doors were all he had.   
It was a mistake to continue keeping everything important clumped together in the same room too, much less the same pack. Joe knew it was risky, but then again, he stood to lose everything if she managed to get to his haversack the way she had the house. So he hid them.  
He hid the first shirt on Currahee. He stepped out at the top of the trail, his eyes landing on the marker. Seeing it released a flood of sense memory, the sound of the company singing, the rhythm kept with the pounding of their boots. The burn of his lungs, the way it felt to slap his hand down along that circular disc, and then turn away, the accomplishment barely registering over the sound of Sobel's voice and the various protests of his own body. Joe had never stopped to take in the view, because that had never been the point, but he did now, looking down the path he had run and further on, towards Toccoa. The camp was still in use, but not for much anymore, now that the war was over. He wondered if Easy had been sent home yet, or if they were still mopping up somewhere in Europe. Most days it felt like the real world was some place he used to inhabit, a place he had left far behind him on the path, but he had read about what the 101st had done in Bastogne, and he had been as relieved as the next person on V-E Day. Where would he be right now, who would he be, if it hadn't been for the witch?   
It was impossible to imagine, so Joe didn't try, just turned away and walked into the recovering scrub, slowly reclaiming the landscape now that it was allowed, now that men weren't actively beating it back. He buried the shirt among the roots of the biggest tree he could find; a marker that he could remember, and one that he figured had to be pretty safe. If the Airborne had deemed it too big and out of the way to fuck with, then whoever moved in next probably would too. Then he jogged back down the trail, and slunk unseen through the nearly empty camp.  
He decided to hide the second shirt back in Oakland. What better place to hide something than under Graf's nose? Besides, it was Joe's city, not hers. She was only there, Joe suspected, to needle his oma, to try and draw her out by fucking with what was left of her human family. Which was stupid, since his oma clearly hadn't cared much about what happened to her grandchildren, so why should she care about what was happening to her son? Joe spent a couple of days slouching around the city, his shoulders curled and his head ducked low in dread of being recognized, but he didn't bump into anyone he knew. He checked in on Max and the kids, from a distance. There wasn't much he could tell, except that they were still there, living in the same house. Max's mother came over to watch the kids when Max left for work. Kay and Theo had changed so much that Joe scarcely recognized them, and fuck that hurt, a sharp lance of pain. Would they even know Al, when she finally got back to them? Would Max want anything to do with her, would any of them be able to come home and pick their lives back up? But he couldn't think about that, either.  
It was a greater risk, checking in on his old man, but Joe did it anyway. He was still following the same routine he always had, spending his days at the shop and maybe stopping in for a cup of coffee at the diner next door before heading straight home. He looked the same, smiled the same. But he wasn't there anymore, and Joe couldn't understand how no one else could see it. Couldn't they see how she had somehow found that warm, sheltering thing that made up the core of his father, and muffled it? She was still holding him down, and Joe knew it because if she wasn't, his father would have opened a door and been at his side in a heartbeat. There wasn't any room for doubt about that; he was as caught in the curse as the rest of them. That was what ultimately decided it for Joe. He waited until dark, then stepped through a door and into the barbershop. His boots were dirty, and he grimaced, stepping lightly across the freshly mopped floor. The lights were off, the seats folded down and turned in towards the mirrors. Did his old man still flip the radio on first thing each morning, before he even got around to the lights? Did he still enjoy music, conversation, or had the witch taken that away from him too? Joe paced a slow circle around the room, considering his options. Graf never came here, because why would she? His father wasn't real to her, was just a pawn in a game she was playing. His passions, the things he had built his life around, they didn't mean a damn thing to her, Joe doubted she was even aware of them. This shop, this room where Joe had spent countless hours of his life, it was probably one of the safest places to hide the last shirt. So Joe did, tucking it away like a promise to his father, a vow.  
There wasn't much worth remembering, in the years that followed. Joe gave up on trying to get honest work, trying to find a place to serve as a home. He lived between the doors, skipping across the country, lifting food from empty restaurants and closed grocery stores. He slept in unused hotel rooms, or outside if the weather was good. Not talking got a hell of a lot easier, because he didn't interact with people anymore. He watched over his shoulder and retted caches of nettle in the most isolated and out of the way spots he could find, like some kind of insane, land-locked freebooter.  
It was eerie, how little it took to unmoor a person, how completely lost a guy could become once all the lines he used to hold himself fast by were cut away. Joe hadn't ever questioned it before, hadn't had to think about all the small and large points he knew himself by. He had just been himself, a guy with family, a barber and a cabbie, a guy who tossed off conversation like it was nothing. Fuck, once upon a time he had talked all day, to his family and to people who paid him to give them a shave or drive them around the city, to friends and bed partners when he had a free moment to himself, and had he ever said anything important? He sure as hell couldn't remember a single word. Living was about the struggle, to get ahead and stay that way, but Joe had always supposed he was a good enough guy, a hard worker, reliable. Now he just took, and he didn't feel shit about the people he took from, and he didn't really think about anything anymore, other than the witch. He hardly thought of his family, or what came before and might come after. He pictured Graf stepping through the reeds beside the water while he spun, he remembered her standing in his kitchen while he wove. There weren't words for the way he hated her, how it consumed him, fed him. When he found his hidden stores of nettle destroyed, when the spare skeins of yarn that he had stockpiled disappeared, it made him furious, sure, but at the same time it was almost a relief, more fuel for the fire, and he needed that heat to keep going. He wasn't supposed to be alone. He needed the hate.   
All that running, getting by on scraps and slowly forgetting everything that it had been for, and it barely paid off. He kept half a step ahead of the witch for the most part, but she caught up to him enough, set him back regularly, so that nearly two years later all he had to show for it was a store of material, and one shirt more. Joe went back to Detroit, wandering around the Cadillac until he found an empty room. He helped himself to the contents of the bar, then collapsed onto the edge of the bed, his haversack at his feet.  
He had less than a year left, and he couldn't keep this up. This years long game of cat and mouse had served its purpose well enough: he'd kept her distracted hunting down his caches of nettle, of fiber and yarn, that she hadn't discovered the completed shirts. But now he needed a new plan. If he was going to finish the last two shirts in time he would need to find a place to hunker down, would have to somehow stay out of her crosshairs for these last few months. But if he wasn't constantly moving, luring her on after him, then she would root out the shirts he had hidden, it was just a matter of time.  
So he would have to go get them. It was risky, but Joe didn't see any other way. He'd keep it all with him, find a place to lay low, and he wouldn't do anything but fucking spin and weave until he got the job done. He was running out of time, there wasn't any other option. It was his last chance.


	8. Chapter 8

They were sitting across from each other in the room off the kitchen, enjoying coffee and a companionable smoke, when the phone started ringing again. Joe glanced over at David, raised a brow. _You gonna answer this one?_   
"No," David answered stonily. "They can goddamn come out here themselves, if they have something more to say about it." Joe thought he should maybe feel guilty for being the reason for some knock-down drag-out between David and his parents, but guilt was one of those emotions he didn't bother with anymore, so he just shrugged, and offered him another cigarette. Anyways, it took more than any one event to break a family; whatever problems David had with them weren't the result of a single phone call.   
Joe had been there for close to a week, when the phone first rang. He and David had settled into a routine of sorts, which mostly involved Joe stumbling downstairs in the morning to find David already settled in at the table, a cigarette or a bowl of cereal in front of him. "Morning," he would say, and sometimes he would sound bleak, and Joe figured those were the mornings that came after another night where he never made it to bed, but sometimes he would smile, everything in his face warming, and Joe would take the opposite seat and help himself to whatever David was having. Then they would peel off in their separate directions, David usually taking the car and disappearing for the day, driving or boating or whatever bored rich people did to pass the time, and Joe up in his room weaving or on the back patio breaking the nettle down to fiber. When David got back they would eat dinner, and then settle in somewhere, sometimes the porch, sometimes in one of the big rooms jutting off the side of the house that were made up almost entirely of windows. Joe would spin, and David would loiter in his orbit. He had stared the first time Joe walked in the room with the distaff and spindle in hand, had stood and watched closely for a full five minutes, his mouth occasionally opening with the beginning of a question that he never asked. Then he gave a wondering laugh, and sat down and picked up a book. And he didn't ask, although Joe often caught him watching speculatively. Mostly he passed the time reading, or talking Joe's ear off. That was what he had been doing when the phone first rang.   
"Is it insane to wish that we had been able to get a better look at that shark?" Joe snorted and didn't look up. _Uh, yeah_. "It was fantastic though, don't you think?" Joe threw a disbelieving look his way at that. He was stretched out across the couch, staring thoughtfully up at the ceiling. "An evolutionary marvel. I wonder how many thousands, or, God, how many millions of years ago they developed to the species we recognize today." He turned his head to look at Joe. "Can any other predator compare? Aside from man, that is."  
_Don't go comparing us to that thing_. Joe gave him a hard look, and David nodded slowly, his eyes going cool.  
"You're right. Humans aren't predators, they're killers. It's a disservice to the sharks." _Okay, not what I meant_. "We hold up the things we create, the art and architecture, point at it as if that could possibly balance out the rest. Nothing can balance that out."  
Joe could only stare at him. _First of all, I don't know what the hell you're talking about. Second, you're fucking wrong_. He couldn't quite make out how, though, and it bothered him, made his throat hurt. David was watching him curiously.  
"Sometimes it seems like you're about to speak," he said, his mild tone belied by his eyes. "You even open your mouth, and then seem to think better of it, and scowl instead." His turned on his side, propped himself up on his elbow. "I wonder what you would say right now, if you could talk."  
_I'd tell you to shut up until you've got something worthwhile to say_ , Joe thought, glaring at him, and then the phone rang.  
"Damn," David said, glancing at the clock. "Three guesses who that could be."  
_How the fuck should I know?_ Joe turned his attention back to his work, and David got up and left the room. He was too far away for Joe to catch what was said, and he wasn't really interested anyway, but he could figure how the conversation went by the changing inflection of David's voice. First casual, the tone so clearly forced it was almost cringe-inducing. Then shifting and slowing down into a bored drawl, before eventually picking back up into a stiff angry clip. "There's certainly enough spare room," he heard David say, then "Did _Paul_ also mention how he tried to-", and finally "Then we're agreed. I'll assume the risk, you'll stay there and hold on to your opinion." The click of the phone, and Joe looked up to watch as David reappeared in the doorway, smiling humorlessly. He crossed the room and, to Joe's surprise, settled down on the floor next to his seat, close enough to touch. And then they were touching, David leaning back against the leg of the chair, his shoulder nudging in against Joe's leg. He did it so damn casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world for two guys to sit crammed this close, like the room wasn't littered with empty seats. Joe pressed his leg testingly against David's arm and shoulder, and David tipped his head back, rolling it against the arm of the chair as he stared up at the ceiling.  
"My father," he pronounced, "has an affinity for numbers, and is very much admired by his peers for his business acumen. He's a titan in his field, charismatic, astute, and finely dressed." He turned his head to the side to look at Joe. "He is also one of the most dictatorial, close-minded, dogmatic men you could ever meet." Joe rolled his eyes towards the door, then back down at David. "It's not worth repeating," David answered, with that strangely effortless understanding that he often seemed to have of what Joe was trying to get across. "Suffice to say, he doesn't comprehend why I would want-" He stopped, frowned and looked away. "You don't need to worry about it."  
Joe got a funny feeling, staring down at him, his flexing jaw and exposed neck. A bizarre urge to give him something good, to put a hand on his throat or in his hair, turn him back towards him and say something reassuring, _Do I look fucking worried? You're not alone anymore, stop acting so damn tragic_. Because he could see it now, or maybe he had seen it from the beginning but hadn't really cared until this moment. The guy was lonely, was hallowed out and haunted by it. Joe glanced down at the spindle, spinning steadily with the twisting of the thread. He bit down hard on his lip as he caught it in his hand, arresting its motion, annoyed with David for who the fuck knew what reason. For being real, he supposed. For being worth stopping for. He set the spindle to the side, shifted the distaff out from under his arm.   
David glanced over in surprise when Joe slid out of his seat to plop down beside him on the floor. Joe glared at him, dug his knee against his thigh. _It's nothing, don't get excited_. He looked away, slouched down and leaned his shoulder in against him, feeling like an idiot. David felt warm and solid, dangerously permanent.  
"Have I mentioned yet that I'm glad you're here?" David said after a moment, and Joe didn't need to look at him to know his expression.  
The phone rang like clockwork after that. Each evening, and sometimes in the mornings too. David would sulk and refuse to answer it, and Joe would remind himself that it wasn't his business. It had been going on for weeks at this point; clearly David's old man was every bit as stupidly stubborn as his son.  
_Finally_ , he thought, when the ringing eventually stopped. Maybe now he could drink his damn coffee in peace. He managed a couple of sips, and then the phone went off again. _Beautiful_.   
"God," David said, dropping his head into his hand. "It's too early for this." Joe thunked his mug down hard on the table to get his attention. _Would you just fucking answer it?_ "Fine," he bit out. "If it will put you in a better mood." _I'm not the one in a goddamn mood_. But David wasn't looking at him, had already pushed his seat back and risen from the table. Joe grabbed his coffee and followed after him, curious to hear what David would have to say for himself. He followed him down the hallway, propped his shoulder against the wall a few feet away and settled in for the show. David shot him a frustrated glare, then picked up the receiver.  
"Hello," he drawled, all round, bored tones. _Jesus_ , Joe thought, smirking into his coffee, _this oughtta be fun_ , but then David's face changed, his eyes lighting up, his stance opening. Joe watched a smile like he'd never seen before grow across his face. "Well, George Luz, how the hell are you?" He listened for a moment, then laughed. "My mistake, Major. I thought for a moment that I was speaking to that insane radioman that used to follow the company around." He threw a quick, wide grin at Joe, who was currently occupied picking his jaw back up off the floor. He barely breathed as he listened to David talk on. "Oh, you've just fallen out of practice. I simply assumed no person in their right mind would try to call someone up at such an ungodly hour, so I was better off letting it ring. Yes, I managed to break that habit, at least." Joe retreated back down the hall, fighting off an awful whirling feeling, a sensation like each step he took was off a fresh cliff. What were the chances of David knowing another guy by that same name? They had to be greater than the odds of him having been a paratrooper, much less having served with the same group of men Joe had trained with. There was no fucking way, it was too huge a coincidence. But Joe recognized that gleeful relief, in David's face and voice. Luz had that effect on people, even back at Toccoa.  
_What does it mean?_ Did it mean anything? A portent, his oma would have said. His ma would have told him that it was his choice whether or not he would see God's hand in the world around him. Joe didn't know whose interference was to blame, but it pissed him off either way. He tapped his thumb against his lip and stared down at his cup as he listened.  
"Next year?" David was saying. "Well, it's difficult to say. I'm not sure where I'll be." His voice had changed again, grown a little stiff, but then he laughed. "No, nothing as exotic as that. Alright, alright, give me a minute. Hey, Lieb!" Joe jumped, stood in indecision for a moment, then poked his head out the door. David had the mouth of the phone tucked in against his neck. "Could you bring me a pen?"  
_What am I, the help?_ Joe slouched his way into the kitchen, telling himself to stay calm. It was a long time ago; Luz wouldn't remember him, and definitely not by something so small as half his actual name. He grabbed a pen and returned to David, who raised an eyebrow at him when he held it out.  
"No paper?" _Fuck off, why don't you?_ David gave him an exasperated look, then tipped his head to the side, holding the phone in place with his cheek and shoulder. "Go on, George, I'm ready. Oh, that's just Lieb, a friend I've got staying over. Yeah, go ahead." He braced his arm against the wall, transcribing awkwardly onto the paler skin of his wrist and forearm. Joe stepped past him, ducking into the bathroom where the last of the nettle was retting. He poked it experimentally; it probably needed another day or so, and then he could pull it out and dry it. _Almost there. I promise, I'm almost there_.   
"Sorry about that." David was standing in the doorway, eyeing the tub and its contents with distaste. "That was an old friend of mine, from the Airborne."  
There it was. Joe watched him out of the corner of his eye as he went to the sink, washed the clinging stench off his hands. He may as well ask now, while it might seem natural. He turned to face him, mimed holding on to the risers.   
"Yes, the paratroopers. Don't ask me why, I don't know anymore myself," David said dryly. Joe patted his shoulder questioningly. "I don't understand." Fuck, how to ask? Joe stepped over to him, reaching his hand up, tracing the outline of an insignia along David's shoulder. David held himself still, his eyes searching Joe's face. "My Division?" Joe nodded. "The 101st. 506th Regiment, 2nd Battalion. E Company." He frowned and glanced down at Joe's hand, still holding on to his shoulder. "Are you alright?"  
What did it mean, when you walked through a door and left one life behind, only to have it come back to you? If he had stayed on at Toccoa, if the witch had never appeared, Joe would know the guy standing in front of him. He would have fought beside him, taken care of him. _Jesus Christ, you're one of those kids I was supposed to have been looking out for_. Joe shifted his hand around, tapping David's chest. Then he held up his fingers, one by one. _You, how old are you?_ "Twenty-five?" David asked, like he wasn't sure he was understanding the question. _Fuck_ , Joe thought, dropping his hand, stepping away. _You were just a kid_. Something else to lock away in his chest, more words and thoughts to add to the pile of incomprehensible shit that he wouldn't ever be able to give voice to, even if he had a voice. Who would David be to him right now, if not for the witch?

* * *

  
Thank fuck for the little things, like the fact that he had gotten out of Georgia before the summer heat set in. Even up on Currahee you couldn't get away from it, and it got worse when Joe started pushing his way deeper into the undergrowth. He found the tree and dug down beneath it until he located the shirt, wrapped in burlap and then stuffed inside of an oversized tin can. He pulled the shirt out, shook it open and looked it over. He had worried over it, but it had held up pretty damn well. Joe stuffed it into his haversack along with the rest of his supplies, then set off back towards the trail. Now he just had to retrieve the last shirt from his old man's shop back home, that and figure out where the hell he was going to live for the next couple of months.   
It was past noon, but Joe had waited on a day that he knew the shop would be closed to make his move, so he wasn't too worried about walking in and surprising anyone at the shop. But he still stepped cautiously through the door, ducking down a bit and darting a quick glance around him as he slid it shut behind him. The lights were out, the only illumination coming in through the wide front windows, the big square of glass along the top of the door. There was a wooden cabinet that Joe had helped his pop build into the back wall to hold supplies; clean towels, extra oil and Brylcreem. It had a false bottom, not for any clever reason, but because Joe wasn't a fucking carpenter, and had measured something wrong when he had built it. But hey, it had worked out in his favor in the end, because nobody knew about it except Joe, and maybe his old man, who'd had to listen to him curse up a storm when he realized he had somehow ended up with more than an inch of space between the bottom shelf and the decoratively scrolled woodwork that he'd already fixed into place. Joe opened the cabinet, grabbing a razor from the nearby stand to aid him in shimmying the shelf edge up. The shirt was right where he had left it, folded so neat and tightly even Sobel would have given it the nod. Joe snatched it up and dropped his haversack to the floor, crouching beside it as he loosened the straps.   
_"Long ago, a man dared to attempt a journey into my realm."_ A shot of ice, burning fear, moving through his stomach and up into his throat. _"I could have prevented him entering, but his boldness pleased me, so I allowed him passage."_ He spun, his hands clenching on the shirt, the bag. She was standing in the middle of the room, had appeared behind him without a sound. _"I admire human daring, tempered with the appropriate amount of reverence, of course."_ She had the same fierce beauty of a bird of prey, eyes that flayed. _"You are distressingly lacking in reverence."_  
Fuck, alright, she was in the way of the front entrance, but if he could get past her and down the hall he would have a couple different doors he could disappear through. But what was the point of running? She could follow him wherever he went, Jesus, she didn't even need a door in order to travel like he did. Joe didn't look away from her as he put the shirt into his haversack, his fingers nerveless and clumsy on the straps as he closed it. _This ain't your realm. It's mine_. Was she reading his thoughts? He hoped so.  
_"Back then I was known by many names. Women would invoke me over their looms, asking me to guide their future as they guided the weft. Men called out to me as they hefted their spears, entreating me to shape a pattern that would lead them to triumph. They spoke my name as best they knew how, and I answered if it pleased me. But never before had a human attempted to find their way to my side."_ She didn't move, Joe had been watching her the whole time, so he knew she hadn't moved, but somehow, between the space of a breath, she had halved the distance between them, so that now she was only a few feet away, standing over him. _"Would you like to know how I rewarded this man, who dared to imagine himself worthy of moving in my shadow?"_  
He wasn't going to stay knelt on the floor in front of her like some damn supplicant before a queen. Joe hooked his arm through the strap of the bag, easing it onto his shoulder. His other hand came down against the floor, and he felt the slim, worn wood of the razor's handle. He picked it up, his fingers falling into place along the tang, stood to face her.  
_"You are my sister's favorite grandchild?"_ She murmured, smiling. _"You are a fool. What do you imagine you are holding, there in your hand?"_  
Not like he really thought he could hurt her, but hell if he wouldn't try. What did she want here, anyway? If this was a game, then she was off the board, manipulating the environment to put the odds in her favor. _Who's bending the goddamn weave now, you fucking witch?_  
_"Come, child, you cannot hope to comprehend the span of this game."_ She lifted a hand, ran a long pale finger along the exposed skin of her collarbone. _"My sister and I both do what we must to secure our victories. But I have never harmed you, or acted against you."_  
_Yeah, houses self-combust all the time. Stupid, human me._  
_"But that wasn't my doing,_ " she protested, her eyes flashing with mirth. _"That was the work of your fellow man. I simply seed a thought. Their base nature is what helps it grow into deed."_  
_Well, fuck, I guess I'll just walk out of here then. See you in a couple months when I break this stupid, antiquated curse._  
_"No, dear nephew."_ Her hand was on his throat in a flash of motion, her skin as cold as porcelain, hard and ruthless. Then he was being lifted, his feet kicking as they left the floor, and her eyes were still cool and gently amused as she tightened her fingers even further. Joe choked, his free hand scrabbling along her steel grip, and plunged the razor down into her neck.  
It was being used beyond its purpose, and Joe knew it. He was meant to scrape it along a jawline, long smooth strokes, or short, controlled motions across the back of a neck. Its wickedly sharpened edge wasn't intended for anything more harmful than revealing strips of skin. But it still sank deep into the crux between her neck and shoulder, the point behind the clavicle where the skin hollowed. _And anyway it's no good for stabbing_ , Joe thought wildly, as the witch's eyes widened in surprise. _You idiot, if you're going to use it to try and kill somebody, you'd be better off slitting their throat_. But then her hold loosened and, _Holy shit it worked_ , Joe thought, doubling his efforts to thrash free, and then she tilted her head away from the handle jutting up towards her chin and laughed, the same way she had laughed that first day in Joe's kitchen, light and silvery, just low enough to be shot through with the promise of sex.   
_"Oh, I do admire your tenacity."_ She reached her free hand up and plucked the razor from her neck. The blade came away clean, no stain of red. She ran a finger around the small gaping slit in her flesh, and Joe watched the skin knit itself together. _"Humans are such endearingly stubborn creatures. You know it is futile, yet you still raise your hand against me. You would have been better served by begging."_ Her arm moved, and Joe's limbs flew out as he was hurled through the air, crashing against the counter and sending the glass and tin containers scattering with a cacophony of sound. Glass shattered, the complex, warmly antiseptic smell of aftershave bursting free. Joe rolled blankly to his stomach, his stunned mind only capable of one thought, _runrunrun_ , tried to scramble back to his feet, but then she was on him again, throwing him back against the mirror and holding him there with one implacable arm.   
_"He was well-formed,"_ she said, wholly unaffected. _"The man I allowed into my kingdom. Pleasing to look at, pleasing to hear the praise drop like sweet honey from his mouth. I took him into my body, took his moans and cries. And when I had wrung every sound from his throat, I took his blood and breath."_ Her eyes were unfocused, her features and voice replete with satisfaction, fond nostalgia. But they were full of terrible intent when she refocused her gaze on Joe. _"There will be no such sweetness for you."_ Joe couldn't see it, held in place like he was against his pack and the mirror, a bug pinned to a board, but he felt it, the cool kiss of the razor against his neck, felt it slide through his skin, almost painless, Jesus, he could barely feel the pain, but he felt the warm spill of blood that followed. _"Insolent creature, too ignorant to know better than to enter my realm. The game holds no assurances for you against such a trespass."_  
_It's not yours._ His heart had grown beyond the space of his chest, pounding so hard he could feel it throughout his body, vibrating beneath his ribs. He'd walked these floors, his voice had risen up to fill the corners. Men came through the door and put themselves in his hands, his care. His arm scrabbled along the counter, searching for something, hot blood running down his shoulder, reaching for anything. His fingers brushed against something rounded, cool to the touch; Joe scooped it up, curling it into his palm. He bared his teeth and stared straight into her hard, inhuman eyes. _Get out of my fucking home_. He swung his arm with all the force of familiarity, the strength of memory; the snick of scissors, the rumble of voices. Cold metal and warm oil and a head tilting obediently beneath his touch.  
The glass jar shattered against the side of her face, and she shrieked, a furious hawk-like cry, and Joe dropped to the ground, shaking, shocked limbs, as she stumbled back. He didn't wait around to see if he had managed to do her any real harm; just picked himself up and hauled ass to the door. His haversack slipped from his shoulder and he caught it in his hand, his other hand reaching out to fumble the knob open. _"Yours?!"_ She screamed after him. _"You've left its spoils and ruins to me! Where will you run?"_  
_Pop, Oma_ , Joe thought, their names and faces the closest he would ever come to a prayer. He threw the door open. _Somewhere far away, somewhere safe_. He fell through the door, and crashed into the sea.


	9. Chapter 9

"You were a gumshoe." David was walking back and forth in front of Joe's bed, six paces to the window, a turn on his right heel, six paces to the door. "New York, New York. You worked as a liaison with the police; they'd give you the name of a man they couldn't approach or pin down, and you'd root him out of the city warrens." The rhythm of his voice slowed, the timbre deepened: that was how Joe knew he was getting into it. "You weren't bothered by the prospect of roughing a target up if you had to, but you preferred to shake information out of them by other means. You'd buttonhole them, trip them up with circular conversation, looping logic, get them to incriminate themselves. You would threaten, cajole, charm; they couldn't keep up with you. You were the scourge of the city's seedy underbelly."  
Joe snorted, made sure to set his mouth flat when David glanced over at him to check his reaction, but David still smirked, had become adept enough at reading Joe's face to know that he was enjoying this one. He came to the bed and stretched out beside him, distracting with the way he settled his head back into the cup of his square, calloused hands, with the dark fuzz of hair beneath his moving throat as he talked on. Joe turned his attention back to the loom, to working the shuttle across the warp, but he couldn't shut out the low meandering of David's voice, and he didn't want to.  
"Your life changed though, after you helped put one of the city's most notorious gangsters behind bars. You never questioned him directly, but you had gone after his associates, wrung admissions and names from them until the police had enough to bring him in. But even locked up, he still moved his men around the city. The people you had interrogated started disappearing, criminals and innocents alike, and your contacts at the station advised you to get out of town. You left, and the further you traveled from New York, the harder it became to speak, every clever word dropping away with the miles. It's a good thing, really, because that kingpin is still hunting you, looking for a silver-tongued talker, glib, charismatic. Your silence is what keeps you hidden."  
Damn, how about an ending that wasn't grim as shit? But Joe, for some reason, didn't mind David's stories, no matter how ridiculous or dark they might get. They still managed to be more entertaining than the truth. The shutter slammed against the side of the house with a sudden sharp crack of sound, and Joe hunched reflexively. He might have been embarrassed by his reaction, if David hadn't jumped too, sitting up with a startled jerk of motion. They exchanged a quick, wry glance.  
"Winter on a northern Atlantic island," David drawled. "What the hell were we thinking?"  
_We?_ Joe threw him a pointed look. _This was your bright idea. I ain't here by choice_. That was a lie though, was becoming more flagrant a lie with each week that passed. Good thing then that he was only telling it to himself. He looked out the window, the world obscured in thick white and gray, the wind howling around the house like a living thing, a creature willing to beat down doors and shatter windows or, failing that, whistle in through chimneys and errant cracks. The house didn't have any heating aside from the fireplaces and the bedroom radiators, probably because nobody had ever actually spent a winter in the damn place. The attic was especially chilly, but Joe still felt more comfortable there than he did anywhere else in the house, and David seemed to prefer rattling on to him in the cold over being alone in the warmth below. Joe didn't know what to think of it, really. He'd had plenty of pals over the years, but that wasn't the right word for a guy who shot the temperature up by degrees when he glanced over unexpectedly, or ran an absent tongue along his lips. 'Friend' wasn't the right word for the subject of countless hastily squashed fantasies, ideas and images summoned up and discarded as quickly as Joe became aware of them. But that was what he had somehow become, over the course of the more than three months Joe had been staying with him.  
He was annoying, with the absurd stories he made up, about why Joe couldn't talk, why he spent his time spinning and weaving. But sometimes he was entertaining as hell, sometimes he almost surprised a laugh out of Joe with the shit he would come up with. And the way he would grin when that happened, like that had been the whole point, fuck, it wasn't good, not for either of them. But Joe couldn't summon up the resolve to leave.  
It felt good to be seen, that was all. Felt good to wake up and know exactly where he was, no disorientation, no trying to remember what state or city he had stopped over in. He was okay, he was safe. Joe glanced over at David, caught him watching him. David's lip curved up in a sheepish smile, but he didn't look away as he settled back against the pillows, one arm folding behind his head, his other hand tapping an even tempo against his own chest. Jesus, what the fuck was he trying to do, drive Joe nuts?  
"You worked for the Manhattan Project. Counterintelligence. It was your job to identify foreign spies who had infiltrated the team. Some you eliminated, but the vast majority you kept around, feeding them false information and bogus leads."  
_Oh, this one oughta be good_. Joe rolled his eyes and got back to work, David droning on beside him, a salve to boredom, to loneliness, as he crawled his way closer to the end of the curse.

* * *

  
_Joseph._  
He went to bed early and woke up late for the most part. It didn't make sense, how damn tired he was all the time; he felt more exhausted these days, secure and well-fed, than he could ever remember feeling before. Like he was making up for years of restless, broken sleep.  
_Joseph_.  
Something crawled along his neck, and Joe lifted a heavy hand to smack it away, burrowing deeper beneath the pile of blankets. Probably a fucking spider; that was what a guy got for sleeping in a drafty attic.  
_Joseph._  
The light touch abruptly became a hand, the fingers bony and insistent, curving around the back of his neck and shaking him awake. Joe jolted upright, his arms flying out wildly to beat away the touch. But there was nothing. But the back of his neck was crawling, writhing.  
Jesus Christ, what did it mean? It didn't matter, he couldn't stick around to find out. He jumped up, fumbled in the dark for his boots, his bag. He packed it each night, kept it within arms length of the bed, because he had to be ready to run, if she came after him. Fuck, it was Graf, it had to be. Well, there wouldn't be any sign left of him aside from an unmade bed, nothing to give away that he had been living here, or to confirm a link to David.  
David. Joe stopped with his hand on the knob of the door. One thought, one step, and he would be safe, at least for another day. But what would she do to David?  
_Nothing_ , he seethed at himself. _She's looking for you, if you aren't here she'll move on._  
But what if she didn't? What if she spoke to him, used him, pulled him under and kept him there like she had Joe's father? Would she seed some cruel thought in him, the way she had described to Joe?  
_Like fuck she will_. Joe wrenched the door open and stepped into David's room, bypassing having to navigate his way down stairs and hallways in the dark. _Goddamn you, David_. He stepped forward until his knees found the edge of the bed, then moved his way up by touch, the shape of a leg, a hip, his shoulder. Joe shook it, what he wouldn't give to be able to shout, to yell in his ear, _Wake up, get up, we gotta go right now_ , but all he could do was clutch at him with hands weak from fear, and stomp his feet hard on the floor to make some noise. An arm shot up and caught him straight in the sternum, forcing the breath out of him in a gusting wheeze.  
"Lieb?" David's voice lifted in astonishment on the end of his name. But he was awake, alert. Joe let him go, stepping back towards the door and feeling along the wall until he found the lights. He flicked them on and crossed back to David, who was sitting up, mussed hair and growing alarm, blinking against the light. "Are you leaving?" He asked disbelievingly, taking in Joe's shoes and haversack.   
_Yeah, and you're coming with me_. Joe hauled him up with two hands on his arm, David hardly resisting. He started to drag him towards the door, then stopped again. What the hell was he thinking? He couldn't take David through a door, especially not without talking him through it first. Could a regular human even jump between doorways like Joe and his siblings could? What if he went through, but ended up getting lost somewhere in between? Jesus, what even existed in the space between doors? He couldn't risk that. He turned, pointed at David's bare feet.   
"My shoes?" David said, stupidly. _Fucking God!_ Joe went to the closet, jerking it open and throwing David's shoes at him. He grabbed the single coat hanging there, turned and shoved against him desperately. _Move it, I swear to God_. "What the fuck is going on?" David gasped as he wobbled on one leg, unbalanced from the way Joe was yanking on his hand. Joe forced his arms into the sleeves of the coat, and David finally managed to get his damn shoes on, and Joe pushed him out the door, flipping the light off as they went.   
"Where are we going?" David asked as Joe hustled him down the black stairs, then, "You don't have a coat," as they went out the back door. Joe was worried about the tracks they would leave in the snow, but it was dark out, the sliver of a moon hidden from sight behind thick cloud cover, but did that matter to a goddess, or whatever the fuck she was? There were several crisscrossing paths across the lawn, the result of David's tendency to wander around outside when he was in one of his snits, staring moodily out past the trees. It had to be enough; Joe didn't know what he would do if it wasn't enough, if she found them. Hurl himself at her and try to kill her again, he supposed. The scar on his neck ached, a reminder of how well that had worked out for him the last time.  
They reached the tree line, and Joe pulled David into the scant cover their barren shapes afforded. _Okay, come on_ , he thought at himself as they skirted around the sharp points of clinging shrubbery, _what now, what are we going to do now?_ There was a half acre or so of woodland separating them from the nearest house, but Joe didn't want to involve any other people if he didn't have to. He led David further back into the trees, until his home was just a looming distant shadow, then pushed him up against a trunk, a hard hand on his shoulder, his waist. _Don't move, stay right there_. He stepped back, ducking behind a neighboring tree. He leaned his cheek against its smooth bark, leaned out just enough to be able to see the house. If she found them, he would grab David and make a run for the nearest door, drag him through and hope for the best.   
"Lieb," David hissed. "What are we doing?" Joe waved a furious hand at him, _Be quiet_ , but it was so dark he doubted David could see it. "This is absurd," he said, after a moment. "Did something happen? Let's go back to the house. It's freezing out here." He had that tone in his voice, the one he got every now and then when it was obvious he was doubting Joe's sanity. _You wanna die?_ Joe crossed back over to him, Jesus, he would kill him if he didn't shut his damn trap, save Graf the trouble. He pushed in against him, clapped his hand down over his mouth. How to say it in the dark, how to say it with only touch? He pressed his other hand on David's throat, ran urgent fingers down along the vein in his neck. _Shut up, you're gonna lead her right to us_. He was trembling, he realized. It only became apparent after he felt how composed David was, his breathing even, his heartbeat only slightly fast and hard where Joe could feel it against his own chest.  
"Hey." David's arm came around his waist, pulling him closer in hesitant increments, his other hand running in a soothing motion up and down his arm. "Lieb. Everything's okay, I promise." His mouth was unbelievably warm, his breath creating a pool of wet heat in the well of Joe's palm. Joe wanted to hit him, or bury his hands and head in against his neck, his body. _I hate you, stay still_. David patted his side, awkwardly pacifying. "Come on, we'll go back together. It's safe." Then the house blazed suddenly to life, glowed sickly yellow against the snow, every one of its windows blaring out like searchlights. "Who-" David said, startled and too loud, and Joe pressed hard against his mouth, muffling his voice. He wrapped his hand around his throat, trying to still the vibrating questions he felt there. He shifted his foot out around David's, used it and the length of his leg to urge and push against him, so that they shuffled together around the tree until they were better hidden from sight. David's hands had turned to clamps, all their prior gentleness gone, but then they loosened, he let go of Joe and tried to pry his hands away from his mouth and throat. Joe fought back, butting his head against David's shoulder in frantic frustration, but David peeled him away, slowly implacable.   
"Stop," he muttered, low and vehement against Joe's ear. Joe stopped; he was being quiet, he wasn't trying to move away. "Lieb, there's someone in the house."   
_No shit, you stupid ass_. Joe tried to pull free of David's grip on his hands, thought about biting him, sinking his teeth into the skin of David's collarbone that his mouth was currently hovering above, holding him wolfishly in place.  
"We should go to the neighbor's. They'll have a phone; we can call the police."  
_No, no, no_. He shook his head back and forth, a useless gesture in the dark, pushed David insistently against the tree.   
"Why? We can't stay here." He was whispering, tightly controlled calm, even as they grappled with each other. Fuck, it was impossible, how could he possibly get him to understand? Joe pressed his face against his neck, still trying to pull free of his hands without moving away. _Please_ , he mouthed silently against his skin. Was this allowed, was he skirting too close to breaking the rules of the curse, breaking everything? He did it anyway. _Please, David, please_.  
David went still, the quality of his grip on Joe changing. His hand came up, pressed warm and searching against Joe's face, his thumb running along his mouth. "God, you can talk, can't you?" He pulled Joe's head back, pulled away, like he was trying to look at him. "You could speak to me right now if you wanted."  
_I've been talking to you, you idiot. What the hell have we been doing, besides talking?_ Joe pressed his forehead against David's, clutched his hands, shoved into him with his whole body. _Just fucking listen to me_.  
"Okay," David said, after a long, awful moment. He stayed where he was, his arm coming up to hook around Joe again as he craned his neck, glancing over his shoulder and around the tree to look back at the house. "Okay, we'll wait here. That's what you want?" Joe nodded, shaking with relief. "Come here, then." He started to snug Joe in closer, urging him in with his arms and a widening stance, and Joe stiffened, tried to yank free of the unexpected embrace. _The hell? We're not out here to neck._ "Stop being ridiculous, Lieb," David huffed in a low, aggravated tone against Joe's temple. "It's below freezing, and you don't have a coat." Shit, maybe he was shaking with something other than anger and adrenaline. He somehow hadn't felt it until David pointed it out, how sharply cold he was. When David tugged on him again, he went with it, leaning creakily in against him, unnerved. This was weird, right? This wasn't supposed to be happening.  
"Put your arms around me," David murmured, fumbling with his coat. _Why?_ There was a growing feeling in Joe's stomach, ballooning up in his chest. A feeling like dread, apprehension. He wound reluctant arms around David's back, and David wrapped the ends of his coat around him, tucking them into place behind his haversack. "There," he said. "We should stay warm enough," and now the warm flutter of his breath against Joe's ear and the rumble of his voice in his throat and chest had Joe fighting back a shiver, because now he was noticing a lot of shit that he really rather wouldn't. David almost burned, he was so intensely warm against Joe's chilled limbs. He hadn't been out on the water since the weather turned, but the harshly fresh snap of the ocean still clung to his skin. Did he really smell like that, or was there something in the base of Joe's brain that summoned it up, his body telling him lies, telling him this was good, that he could trust this. And what was he supposed to do with his head? His face was way too close to David's right now, their breath mingling warm in the scant space between them. He tried leaning it against the tree, but that was uncomfortable, and anyways if he did that then his nose was basically buried in David thick, perfect hair. Even his hair was perfect. Joe pulled away, settled his chin on David's shoulder.  
"That hurts," David said mildly, so Joe adjusted, and great, now his cheek was laying against his shoulder, they may as well be fucking slow dancing. Memory hit Joe with its usual cruel force, him and Al side by side beneath the table, watching the spinning dancers. They had been unreal, gliding across the polished floor, like something from a dream. Sometimes it still felt like a dream, like Joe had made it all up, but then, all he'd had to do to confirm it was turn to Al and say, _Hey, remember that ball we crashed?_ and, _Yeah_ , she would say back, _remember how oma pounced on us the minute we got back?_ and then Joe would know what was real, where he had been and who he was. Fuck, he needed them to tell him who he was, he could hardly remember anymore.  
"Lieb." A hand running along his back, a cheek pressed against his own. "Lieb, it's alright." A voice thick with concern, confusion. Fuck, what the fuck was happening? His chest was heaving, his breath was coming in huge shuddering gulps. _Stop it, stop it_. Joe ground his teeth together and pressed his eyes against David's shoulder. _This is your fault, don't touch me like tha_ t. "I don't know what to do," David said, and Joe clung on to him. _Get a hold of yourself, Jesus Christ. The witch, remember the witch_. He reached for it, the hot hate, more reliable and true than any soft touch. But it kept slipping away from him, leaving him alone with that other feeling, that black loss. _Al, Jake, Gertie_. He was getting them back, there wasn't any reason for this stupid reaction to being touched, held close. _Judy, Klara, Pop_. His breathing became less desperate, he started reigning it in, pulling it all back down. David's hand was still moving up and down his spine, and Jesus, his other hand was in Joe's hair, all gentle fingers. It was embarrassing, cracking up all over the guy, and even more embarrassing to admit to himself that he was not going to make David stop. He should make him stop.  
_What the hell is wrong with you?_ Joe thought angrily at himself. _You're supposed to be afraid_. It had to be in there somewhere, in the soupy mess sloshing around beneath his ribs, that very sensible fear that he should be feeling right now. But mostly he felt tired again. The bane of his existence, the evil object of every dark thought and fantasy that he'd fed on for the last five years, was prowling around David's house a hundred yards away, and all Joe could think about was how goddamn good it felt, the steady rise and fall of David's chest against his, the sound of his careful breathing, too close to Joe's cheek.  
"You know," David whispered, and Joe tensed up. _Don't talk about it, I'll punch you if you talk about it, I swear to God_. "I got hit in the leg in Holland, and spent most of the winter in a hospital back in England. The food was terrible." He said it with such dry sincerity, Joe couldn't help but smirk. "By the time I rejoined my company, the cold was on its way out. So I suppose I'm paying my back dues right now." His hand stopped, pressing warm and flat against Joe's back. "It's not so bad."  
 _Idiot_. Joe stuck his nose in further to the warm space between David's neck and the collar of his coat. Hell, why not? There wasn't any getting around the way they were holding on to each other, curling in on each other. He may as well enjoy it. He opened his hands from where they had been clenched into fists against David's back, wrapping them more securely around him, pulling him in. David made a soft, surprised sound in his throat, so quiet that Joe wouldn't have heard it if they hadn't been this close. _You're such an idiot, it's unreal_.   
Considering the fact that it had been more than five years since Joe had gotten intimate with anything other than his own hand, it was pretty damn impressive that he wasn't trying to hump David's thigh at the moment. It was a nice thigh. He had never gone in for this kind of thing before, whatever this was, this horribly intimate thing they were doing. It didn't matter what mood he was in, whether he wanted to fuck or get fucked, he only played around as much as he needed to in order to get what he wanted, and he sure as hell didn't do anything afterwards other than maybe give an appreciative squeeze or smack on his way out the door. He didn't like to be touched, got annoyed with his bed partners when they tried to get too handsy.   
Except apparently he did like it. Apparently he liked it so much that he was capable of letting his mind bounce like a skipped stone over all the other things they could be doing to each other right now, here against this sturdy tree, and just sink heavily down. His legs were cold, except for where they were intertwined with David's. His nose was running, the ear that wasn't pressed against David's shoulder had gone numb. David's breath against his jaw was irritating, warm when he exhaled, the bite of the air felt all the more keenly when it dissipated. Heat, and then it's absence. Why did that make him think of his oma's spindle, whirling away?  
"The lights went out." Joe jerked a bit at David's whispered voice, fuck, had he been falling asleep? "Should we go back?" He thought for a moment, then unwrapped one arm from David's back, set his hand against David's chest. He tapped each finger down, one at at time, the signal he had been using with David to communicate a measurement in question. _How long ago?_ "I don't know. Ten, fifteen minutes?" Joe pushed his palm in, held it there. _No, better not_. It could be a trap, she could be waiting there in the dark, her eyes gleaming. She could be moving soundlessly across the trampled snow. He shifted his hand further down, hovering over the point where that steady beating thrummed strong beneath David's skin. There was a burning coil in his stomach, wrapping tighter and tighter. _She's not getting to you, not you too_. It didn't make any sense, this sudden possessive, grabbing feeling, but Joe didn't question it. David, with his pale eyes that couldn't hold on to a cold expression, his dumb stories and odd opinions. The way he actually saw Joe, the way he kept on speaking to him, not afraid of misunderstanding, of having to bumble his way forward. No way was Joe letting her touch him, change him.  
"How long are you going to keep us out here?" David griped under his breath. _Until I can see past my fucking nose_ , Joe thought in answer, settling back in against him. David sighed when Joe didn't answer him, tipped his head back against the tree.  
Joe didn't know how long they stood huddled together in the cold. Three hours, four? They shuffled positions when they got too uncomfortable, took turns dozing against each other. David bitched, but Joe refused to let him return to the house until the black around them started to turn a richer shade, slowly suffusing with light. Then they disentangled their stiff limbs, and Joe made David follow behind him as they approached the house. It was still dark, a shadowy indigo landscape, but he could see well enough to pick up any movement, to grab David and bolt.   
They stepped through the back door, stood side by side in the hallway outside the kitchen. "We should check the rooms," David said, and Joe nodded, even though he knew it didn't really make a difference; she was still here or she was gone, and they wouldn't see her until she wanted them to. He stuck next to David as they moved from room to room, kept an eye on the doorways as they slowly climbed through the house. "They didn't take anything," David said after they checked the first two floors. He was looking at Joe, the questions piling up in his eyes. Joe stepped past him, opening the door that led to the third floor.  
His room looked the same: empty except for the bed and side table, the threadbare chair. David checked the closets perfunctorily. "Nothing." Joe went to the bed, sliding his haversack off his shoulder and setting it down on the mattress. An odd color caught his eye, a stark brightness against the duller cream of his pillow. He could hear David saying something, somewhere over his shoulder, but the meaning was gone. Joe reached out and picked it up from where it had been set with meticulous artistry on the place where he rested his head each night. His hands were startlingly steady. She knew he was here; she wanted him to know that she knew. _This fucking game. I'm so tired of this fucking game_ , he thought, as he cradled the swan feather in his hands.


	10. Chapter 10

Half an hour later they were settled in their typical spot, staring muzzily across the table at each other. They hadn't needed to discuss it, had both stepped with silent agreement back into their daily routine, separating briefly before coming back together in the nook off the kitchen, the small room reassuring in its familiarity. But there was nothing reassuring about the resolute way David was sucking down his third smoke of the morning, or the growing intent in the stare he was leveling at Joe. Usually he lingered over a lone cigarette, the cherried tip sinking gradually closer to his lips, jumping erratically as he spoke, because he was always going on about something or other and apparently couldn't be bothered to keep shifting the cigarette in and out of his mouth. The quiet between them now was fraught with thorns. Joe propped his foot on the haversack, which he wasn't letting out of his sight, not now that Graf knew where he was, and stared back. He wanted to shift in his seat, because his ass was still numb from standing around outside. He wanted to look away, look anywhere but at David. But he couldn't do that, couldn't be anything other than flint, because he had a good idea what came next.  
"So." David stubbed his cigarette out with two quick, practiced tamps. He leaned back, crossed his arms. "Here's what I know." His hand tapped along his arm as he spoke, keeping the measure of his voice. "You didn't slice your own throat; someone did it to you. I could assume that they were trying to kill you, but if that were the case, why didn't they finish the job? Based on the facts I have, the safest bet is that some person, or persons more likely, took you out on a boat with the intent to kill you. They cut you, but they bungled it, or you fought back." He had eyes that probed down one layer at a time, but that was why Joe was a stone, hardly human. David tilted his head minutely. "You fought back. You would have fought like hell, and it explains how you ended up in the water. You got away and jumped overboard, and they decided to leave you. You were as good as dead after all, stranded at sea with a slit neck." He suddenly flinched, as if appalled by his own words, his own story. But he didn't look away, and Joe didn't blink. David's throat moved, a nervous swallow, and then he went on.  
"I'd ask you how long you were out there, except I know you wouldn't answer me. But you could." His voice was losing its cool veneer, was showing rough edges. "You could tell me what happened, but you won't. The only reason that I can come up with is that you're trying to protect someone. Not yourself, because you don't seem to care what might happen to you, not really. God, you were going to let them lock you away in a sanitarium rather than tell the truth. Lieb, if you're trying to protect someone, I want to." He stopped, his knuckles pressing white for a moment against his arms. "I want to help," he said quietly.   
The best thing about David's voice was how it seemed to come from somewhere in his chest, like there was only so much he could do to separate his heart from the words he spoke. It made Joe's throat tight with all the things he wouldn't ever say, made it a struggle to hold on to his cruelly blank expression. But David's eyes flared, a quick burst of hurt anger, so Joe must have managed it. David looked away, took a ragged breath. He stared out the window as he resumed talking, his face and voice carefully controlled.   
"Even if that were all true, it doesn't explain the rest of it. All the other things that I can't make any fucking sense of. What are you making, and why are you making it all by hand? And why were you purposefully hurting your hands? Are you done with that now? I hated watching you do that." There he went again, talking too much, making Joe want to clap his hand down over his mouth. "You don't seem to enjoy it, whatever it is you're doing. You look so fantastically livid when you weave I sometimes think you'd like to break that frame over your knee. And then -" He stopped abruptly, his mouth opening and closing, like he had more to say but couldn't bring himself to it. "And why don't you speak?" He burst out, turning to look back at Joe. "Forget telling me what the fuck is going on, forget explaining yourself or who tried to kill you. You talk in other ways, what's the difference? You could ask me for a light, or tell me to go to hell, but you don't, you stop yourself. Why?" Joe glared at him, his head and chest humming. _Unbelievable. You barely care that someone broke into your home, but you're pissed I don't ask you to pass the damn sugar_. "What if I wanted to hear your voice?" David said, wildly, as if in answer, and then gaped at Joe, a dismayed flush crawling up his neck. "God," he said, looking down at the table with a jerking motion. "That's not the point, I don't -" He laughed, bitterly short, and shook his head. "I'm sorry. Forget I said that. Just." He scrubbed a hand across his face. "Just tell me, last night, how did you know someone was coming here? Were you contacted somehow?"  
If Joe were a storyteller like his oma, or like David or Klara, then he would maybe be able to maneuver this whole conversation in some way that didn't hurt them both. Sure, he could tell a lie as well as the next guy, toss off a, _I'll have it to you by Thursday_ , or a, _You look great, don't worry about it_ , but those were knee-jerk, weightless lies, evaporating as soon as he said them. There wasn't any quick, placating falsehood that he could slap on this to cover all of David's stabbing questions, nothing but the truth, and that was impossible. Hell, he wouldn't tell the truth even if he was allowed. David would sign the commitment papers himself if Joe tried to tell him that. But David was looking at him with that bright, searching gaze of his. Joe looked away, shrugged a shoulder. _I don't know_.  
"That's it? That's all you have to say?" Joe glared at him, slouched further down into his seat. _Yeah, that's it_. David's jaw clenched. "And I suppose you don't know when or if they might come back, whoever they were." He opened his mouth like he was going to say something else, then seemed to think better of it, standing up from the table and heading to the door. "I'm going for a drive," he said, coldly clipped. _Go, you think I give a shit?_ But David didn't look back, and Joe had to fight against a sudden urge to get up and follow after him, just so he could turn him around and make it clear to him that he didn't care whether he stayed or went. He scowled down at his hands, rubbed his thumb along his aching knuckles.  
David was gone all day, not that Joe was watching the clock or anything. He had more important stuff to do; the fact that he posted himself near a window that afforded a clear view of the drive up to the house didn't mean a damn thing. It had good light, that was all; he didn't want to wreck his eyes like he had his hands. The fourth shirt was nearly complete, just a few more days worth of work and then he could start in on the last one. Just a few more months, and it would finally be over. He would bring them home, like he had promised his father he would nearly five years ago, kneeling there on the floor beside that terribly empty bed.   
_Talk about a fairy tale_. Hell, it was the oldest story in the book, the journey and its trials, the return home. But nobody ever went home, not really. Just look at David.   
The car came into view below him, as if thinking about David had somehow summoned him back. _Who cares_ , Joe assured himself, getting up and taking the door to his bedroom. _He can do whatever_. He arranged himself at the foot of the bed, settling the haversack between his knees as a makeshift work surface. He focused on his stitching, not on the various creaks and groans emitted by a large house in winter, scowled at the bunched fabric, picking at a seam and not listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. When he heard the unmistakable scrape of the stairway door opening, he made sure to bend his head industriously over the shirt, made sure that he was mid-stitch, so that when David knocked hesitantly on the door and then eased it open, he could look up with a disgruntled twist of his lips, and then back down. _You don't matter, what do you want?_   
"Mind if I come in?" Joe shot him a look, glanced pointedly at David's feet, already shuffling their way more fully into the room. David smiled, taut and uneven, a disconcerting contrast to his typical slow smirk. He came and sat on the edge of the bed beside Joe, and that was alarming too, because David typically set himself at an angle in relation to Joe, stretched out when Joe was sitting, settled below or behind or across from him, but never directly beside. Joe made a show of not noticing, resisted the urge to hunch away from him, the way he expelled his breath out in a gust as he sat, the way he still carried the cold from outside with him, fresh and bracing. David didn't speak, just sat beside him, and now Joe's pulse was starting to jump. What the hell was he trying? He jabbed the needle through, pulled the thread after it. Some brilliant new tactic to try and get him to talk? Was he working himself up to asking Joe to leave? Jesus, had he worked out how much Joe hated silence, was he doing this to get back at him? The thought stung enough to break his resolve, to have him glancing over at David.   
He was watching him with that steady, lightly probing gaze of his. His mouth parted when Joe looked over, like he was gathering himself. He leaned closer, his arm brushing against Joe's warding elbow, his body and voice too near.  
"Lieb, I want to." He stopped, pressed his lips tightly together in nervous agitation, then tried again. "How do you feel about dinner?"  
_What do you mean?_ Joe stared at him, and David sucked in a breath. "Would you like to eat dinner with me?" He asked, not breathing out, having to speak around the air he was holding in his chest. "Not here, somewhere else."  
_What, like a date?_ His face must have shown his baffled disbelief, because David looked away, threw a quick, desperate glance around the room, then looked back at him, his expression piqued. "I'm trying to ask you to dinner," he bit out from between his teeth.  
_So like a date_. Joe wanted to laugh in his face. No way. No, for too many reasons. He shook his head at him, his lip twisting. _What the fuck are you thinking?_ He wasn't some girl for David to hold hands with, or to say sweetly stupid things to while Joe simpered at him from across a table. And anyways, if someone was taking somebody else out to dinner, it should be Joe taking David. Fuck's sake, David was the one who should be getting goddamn wooed, not him. If he could fucking talk, if he wasn't scabby with hate and fear, wasn't living under a curse -   
"No one would find it strange," David said swiftly, misinterpreting. "There's nothing inherently suspicious about two men eating dinner together."  
_What would you know about it? You make a habit of this?_ Beautiful, and now he was jealous, of nothing, of the idea of David speaking to someone else the way he spoke to Joe, the thought of him sitting across from some other guy, giving someone else that dozy grin. He was so hopelessly naïve, did he even know to be cautious, or did he just let careless cocksuckers take him wherever without scouting the place out first? _Did you live through a war and fuck knows what else just to get beaten to death because you trust too easily?_ Joe frowned, looked down at the shirt he was clutching in his hands. It wasn't his job to look after the idiot. And where the hell was this coming from, anyway? It was out of left field, midnight gropings aside. He couldn't figure how David had gone from stamping his way out the door this morning to trying to take him out to dinner. What was his game? But David didn't have a game, that was what Joe liked about him.  
"Well, let's forget it," David said, and Joe glanced over at him. He was tapping a hand restively against his knee; he gave Joe an annoyingly understanding smile when their eyes met. "I don't want you to feel uncomfortable."  
_Who's uncomfortable? Not me_. Joe scowled at him, and David rolled his shoulders in a shrug, his gaze dropping down to his lap. "I shouldn't have asked you, not after the night you had," he said sympathetically, like Joe was some soft touch who needed to be handled with kid gloves. "After all that stimulation, you probably need some time to recover." He looked up at Joe, the punch of blue eyes, bright with amused challenge. "Want me to head downstairs, heat up some pap for you?" He asked solicitously, his lips just starting to curve.  
_Oh, you fucker_. Joe glared, grinned, fought against the urge to tackle David, push him back onto the bed. He shoved him hard and David laughed as he caught himself on a hastily thrown out hand. He resettled, closer now than he had been before, warm along Joe's side.   
"I think it could be fun," he said, nudging him with his shoulder. "We're both going a little stir-crazy." He reached over, touched Joe's hand hesitantly. Sometimes it still shocked Joe that he had any working nerve endings left in his hands, and he didn't know if it was something to be thankful for at the moment, the soft jolt of David's grazing touch, the disquieting sight of David's perfectly formed hand hovering over his own, scarred and twisted. Ruined. "Lieb." What was he supposed to do against that low voice, other than strike out or fall in? He looked at him, ignoring the way David's fingers were moving carefully over his knuckles. "Will you go out to dinner with me?"  
_It's not gonna be that easy, sweetheart_. Joe stood up, tugging David after him. He made him wait while he stuffed the shirt safely away and shouldered his haversack, then turned to face him, gesturing to the room around them. David watched his hands carefully, gave a surprised grunt when Joe grabbed his wrist and pulled him in against him. _This room, this place, you and me_. He led him downstairs and into the fancy big-windowed room, pointing to the huge piano that David had told him no one in his family could play, the perfectly orchestrated furniture arrangement. He pushed David away from him, stepped back. _Just you, this one's no good_.  
"Nothing over the top?" Joe nodded. "I can work with that." David was grinning, stupidly pleased. Joe pulled his haversack off his back, shook it meaningfully. _And this is coming along_. "That won't be a problem." He wasn't going to smile back, no matter how the guy beamed at him. "Tomorrow night?" Joe shrugged, looked away. _Fine, whatever_. "Alright." _Jesus Christ, give it a rest with those fucking eyes_. But David just went on looking at him, like he couldn't believe he had managed to pull it off, like Joe had fallen right into his trap, a trap as old as the history of man, baited with heat and sugar. "It's a date."

* * *

  
Joe spent the following day avoiding David, prowling from room to room and working at the loom with half his usual speed. By the afternoon he had given up on it and gone back to spinning, which he found easier to keep at when his thoughts were scattered, and they sure as hell were all over the place today, bouncing back and forth between anticipation and fury. What was he thinking, letting himself get caught up with some rich pretty boy, some wet dream come to life? The curse was the only thing that mattered, but Joe was letting David swallow him up. It was a mistake, and he knew it, but his guts and chest didn't agree with his head. But could he trust his gut feeling, when it resided in such close proximity to his cock? The guy was a fucking assault on the senses, sometimes Joe felt drunk with it, so no, he couldn't trust his stomach, not on this.  
But David was more than his good looks. If he was just gorgeous, Joe flattered himself to think he wouldn't have shit to feel conflicted over. He would be gone by now, would have moved on to some other place, if David was just boringly beautiful, if there wasn't a whole rich world waiting beneath the surface. How to unravel it, needing from wanting, loneliness from companionship, the pull from his chest from the pull in his stomach? It couldn't go back to loose filaments, once it had been spun tightly together.   
Fuck, it was beyond him, it was so far past what he could grapple with. Joe tossed the tools back into his haversack, got up and stepped through the door and into David's bathroom. He couldn't do much with the limited wardrobe he had available to him, but he could do something about his ragged, too-long hair, the patchy growth along his jawline. He pawed through the cabinet drawers until he turned up a razor and a pair of scissors. They were shoddy quality, which was just typical, people wealthy enough to afford all this but so careless with the little shit that they didn't know better than to put any old bit of sharpened steel to their face. But he would make it work. He shaved first, working the lather up, the comforting soft knock of the brush against the bowl. David had some quality soap at least. When it was perfect, soft and billowingly thick, Joe ran a strip over his face, followed by the razor. He thought, briefly, of being held against the mirror, of Graf pressing the blade into his neck, but it was easy to let other memories rise up over it, all the times he'd held a razor in his hands and helped a guy straighten himself out, tighten a loosening line holding him to civilization.   
Cutting his hair was alright, except for the back, which he had to do by feel, and it wasn't made any easier by the cheap scissors that had to be held just so in order to get a clean neat cut. But Joe was a professional, and when he finally dropped the scissors and helped himself to David's pomade, slicking his hair back from his face and covering the choppier bits with the more precise work he'd been able to give the top and sides, he had to say, no one besides another professional would be able to tell the difference. He inspected himself in the mirror, turning his head to look at the scar on his neck, twisting to make sure the back was even. He was still punching above his weight, but fuck it, that had always been half the fun, way back when. But it hadn't ever mattered much before, either.   
_Would you just calm down_ , he thought to himself, glaring at his reflection. _It's not like this is your first time_. Except that was mostly a lie, because Joe had never been on a goddamn date before, at least not with another guy. He had taken the occasional girl out, to keep his ma off his back and to start laying tracks for a future point in time when he was ready to give up men and start a family of his own. He liked women well enough, the way they smelled and the profusion of sounds they made when he touched them just right. But he didn't have any illusions about what he really liked, or its limitations. So no, he hadn't wasted his time with anything so formal when it came to getting another man into bed. He went to whatever bar or bathhouse was the safest bet of the week, bought drinks and talked his quarry up. And yeah, he'd had a couple of casual arrangements that he could fall back on when shit didn't pan out, but was it a date when both parties knew exactly where it was going, and exactly where it would end? Joe didn't think tossing back cheap hooch and trading increasingly unsubtle references to fucking counted much as a date, didn't think shoving a guy back into a bathroom stall and telling him to shut the hell up and drop his pants was much of an indicator for some kind of future relationship.  
_Future relationship? Jesus Christ, you're losing it_. Even if his entire family wasn't cursed, even if his home wasn't on the other side of the country, there wasn't any future here, for either of them.  
_Then what the hell are you going for?_  
_What am I gonna do, it's David._  
Beautiful, now he wasn't even pretending to be talking to anyone else but himself. Joe took the door straight back to his room, not wanting to bump into David, and forced himself to finish stitching the fourth shirt. _Here's yours, Judy. Klara, kid, I've been saving up for you. It'll be the best looking shirt of the bunch_. He kept at it until the light outside his windows had all but seeped away, then got up and changed. He had claimed a handful of David's shirts for himself, but there was only one that fit him halfway decently, so that was the only option for tonight as far as Joe was concerned. He pulled it on, a little too worn, a little dated, but it had a collar, and it didn't hang all loose off his limbs. A final swipe at his hair, and he grabbed his haversack and took the bedroom door downstairs. He didn't want David to think he was looking forward to it, but it would be worse, he decided, to come downstairs and find David waiting for him, the way Joe had waited outside or in the parlor for the handful of girls that he had taken out. He paced the hallway, then turned and looked out the window when he heard David's tread on the steps. It was near dark now, the color leeching out of the sky and down into the horizon.   
"Hey." He turned around as David came down the hall towards him. David was staring at him, a slow perusal. "Wow, you." He gestured. "Your hair. You look different." He started to smile, smug but somehow still sincere. "You look really good, Lieb."  
_What, you didn't think I had it in me?_ Joe smirked at him, watched David as he walked over to the hall closet for his coat. He was wearing a collared shirt and tie, with a cabled sweater pulled over it. David was the sort of guy who should always dress in layers, so Joe could remove one article of clothing at a time in his imagination, could linger over what he might do to him as he stripped him down. Right now he was liking the thought of David with just his belt loose and that sweater wound tight around his arms to hold him in place.  
"Put your bag down for a second." David's voice snapped him back, had him curling his shoulders defensively. _Why? I told you it was coming with me_. "Just for a second, Lieb. What do you think I'm going to do, light it on fire?" Joe scowled, and David's grin slipped a few degrees. "God, I'm joking," he said, watching Joe carefully. "I just want you to put this on." He lifted his arm, holding out a gabardine jacket. "It's cold out, and while I can't say I found it unpleasant to share a coat with you, I don't think we want to draw that sort of attention tonight."  
_You think you're pretty slick, huh?_ Fuck, Joe wanted to shut him up. He snatched the jacket and shrugged it on, and David did the same with his coat, the two of them staring each other down, a tangling of wills. Was this a date or a war maneuver? Either way, Joe wasn't going to be the one to break. He stared, flat and unflinching, until David finally looked away, looked towards the door.  
"Are you ready?" He asked tightly. He brushed an unsteady hand down the front of his coat, his jaw working. _Yeah, I'm ready_. Joe swung his haversack onto his back and came to stand beside him, close enough for their shoulders to brush. David threw him a skittish, agitated look, and Joe grinned, tipped his head in towards him. _Don't worry, I won't bite unless you ask real nice_. He bared his teeth, and David's expression shifted from wary to heated alarm. Joe winked at him, reached past him to open the door.


	11. Chapter 11

'Sea Food', the first sign proclaimed along the decorative balustrade that ran the length of the restaurant's roof. This was followed by, 'Ice Cream', and, to Joe's surprise, 'Chop Suey'. _No way_ , he sneered to himself, even though he knew he would end up getting it. _No way it's any good_. It couldn't possibly compare to the beautiful, aromatic piles that he had inhaled back home, in the gray hours after a night out, sometimes alone, sometimes with a handful of buddies, boisterous and loud, _more,_ _noch einer, gǎnkuài, grazie_. Jesus, how they had yelled, shoved each other, barely been tolerated by the wait staff, and Joe had laughed and talked around each delicious bite. Joe glanced at David, trying to picture him there. He could see it, that was the surprising thing, David beside him at the cheaply lacquered red table, grinning sleepily with Joe's arm slung around his shoulder, the closeness overlooked by the company and the late hour. That was the story that he would tell himself, when this was all finally over and they had gone their separate ways. Some normal little story, a warm small lie for restless nights.   
"It's a popular restaurants," David said abruptly, like it suddenly occurred to him that he might have to sell the place to Joe. "But it caters more to the locals than the summer transients." Joe pointed at David, mimed eating. "Have I been here before? No, I've stopped in once or twice for a drink, but I've never - why, would you rather go somewhere else?"   
_No, this will work_. He wanted that chop suey. Joe hefted his haversack and climbed out, David following after. He stood by the car, one hand on the door like he didn't know what he was supposed to do next, and Joe rolled his eyes and started towards the restaurant. David caught up with him in front of the steps.  
Inside, Joe made straight for the open corner table, David calling out a hasty greeting to the man behind the bar as he went. He dropped into his seat, the haversack settled against his leg, and waited impatiently for David to join him. There was a crinkled paper menu on the table, but Joe scarcely spared it a glance.   
"Do you want a drink?" David asked, as he took the opposite seat. "Gin, whiskey or beer, that's all they serve." Joe shrugged, gestured with his shoulder. He pulled his pack from his pocket and held it out to David. "Yes, thanks." They leaned into the table, passing the pack and the zippo between one another. The waitress circled around their way, and David gave her a perfunctory smile, turning in his seat to address her. "Two gin tonics. How does that sound?" Joe nodded when David glanced over at him.   
"You fellas know what you want?" She asked, looking down at Joe's pack with poorly veiled censure.   
"We may need a moment. Lieb, they serve a variety of -" Joe cut him off with a wave of his arm, pointing to the menu, the advertisement for chop suey that ran along the bottom of the page. "Oh. Alright. Uh, the chop suey please, and I'll have the flounder." He watched the waitress walk away, then turned back to Joe, suddenly intent. "You can read, then."  
Fucking hell. _You idiot, this is what happens when you get comfortable_. Of all the dumb ways to slip up, get caught. Joe scowled at David, the hand that wasn't holding his smoke balling into a fist.  
"If looks could kill," David drawled. He settled an arm along the table, took a prolonged drag off his cigarette. "I never really believed you couldn't," he said finally. "You look at street signs as we pass them, you know. And I've seen you glance at the titles of books I read." _Okay, Dick Tracy_. "I don't care, Lieb. I mean." David tipped his head back, the movement of his throat constrained by his collar and tie. "Of course I care, that's not what I meant." He looked back at Joe, dropped his cigarette into the tray half-finished. "It has to do with why you won't speak, doesn't it? No words, is that the point? That's why you only talk with your hands."  
_Stop asking me, I can't fucking answer you_. David stared at him for a long moment, then leaned in, his voice dropping. "I don't need to understand, that's what I'm trying to say. I like the way you speak to me." He looked down, tapped his hand nervously against the table surface. "I think. I think we speak more easily to each other than most people manage in multiple languages."  
_Shut up, Jesus Christ_. Fortunately the waitress chose that moment to come back with their drinks, and David pulled away, settling back into his seat, and Joe was saved from having to either throw something at David's face or haul him across the table and bite down on his constantly running mouth. They both buried their noses in their drinks and spent the next minute carefully not looking at each other. _Like a couple of sweaty-palmed teenagers_ , Joe thought, torn between frustration and amusement. _You're thirty-two years old, for fuck's sake_. Too old for this. It was a younger man's game, a game of open hearts, and Joe didn't have much to give from that vicinity anymore. David deserved someone who could put their whole heart into it.   
"Is it something you enjoy?" He looked up; David had set his drink down, was moving it idly back and forth across its own trail of condensation. "Reading, I mean." He shrugged at Joe's annoyed look. "What's the harm in answering? You can read, you've just been pretending that you can't so that I wouldn't expect you to communicate with me that way, isn't that right?" Joe huffed a breath, threw up a hand. _Okay, yeah, you got me_. David grinned triumphantly. "So answer the question. Do you enjoy reading?" _Of course I do, who doesn't like to read?_ He gave David a disgusted look, made an all-encompassing gesture with his hands. "Okay," David said, a hint of heat entering his voice, "what sort of books do you like?" Joe shook his head at him, and David grimaced. "Come on, Lieb, this is standard fare for a first date." _First?_ "Favorite books, favorite pastimes. What do you like to do for fun? Here, I'll go first." He sat back in his seat, took a drink and thunked the cup down on the table in front of him. "I enjoy sailing." He gave Joe a sardonically expectant look. "This is the part where you indicate interest, by nodding or leaning forward." Joe felt the corner of his mouth tugging up, twisted his lip to keep it contained. He let the moment stretch a bit, then set his elbows on the table, leaning over his drink. Playing along was worth it, since he was instantly rewarded with one of David's slow motion smiles.  
"It's a fairly new hobby, something I've gotten more interested in since coming home. When I was a boy, I used to make model sailing vessels."  
_You're kidding me_. David rubbed his jaw self-consciously. "It's true. I still have the majority of them, in my room back home. I would work on them for days at a time." He looked at Joe, tipped his chin. "Your turn. What do you like to read?"  
Joe thought for a moment, then placed the sides of his hands on the table. He set them at square angles, shaping the panels, moved across sequentially. "The newspaper? That's not really what I meant." _No, pay attention_. He pushed his chair back, giving himself room to mime the action, Flash Gordon lifting his ray gun to fend off yet another Mongo monstrosity. Or bursting into the room armed with the sword he had ripped from a defeated guard, appearing just in time to rescue Dale Arden from the clutches of Ming the Merciless. He looked over at David, who was frowning in concentration.  
"Comic books?" Joe nodded, slouching back down into his seat and taking a slug of his drink. David's brow was creased, but he was smiling, his eyes steady on Joe. "I haven't really read any, to be honest. Maybe we should pick some up. What else, what other hobbies?"  
_Hell, I don't know_. What had he done with his time, when he wasn't working? Why was it so hard to remember? He shrugged, gestured around the room, the handful of guys at the bar, the families sitting together around the tables. Conversation, people, that uniquely edged excitement that came from being surrounded by friends or strangers. David turned in his seat to look, his arm coming up along the back of his chair. He looked back at Joe.  
"Do you?" He asked, sounding surprised. "I didn't think that you, well." He stopped, shaking his head. "I guess I assumed that you preferred your own company. I don't know why, really." He glanced over his shoulder, his voice oddly cynical. "I can picture you sitting over there though. More easily than I can myself."  
Whatever that meant. Their food arrived, and Joe watched David over the rim of his drink, only half-listening as he ordered another round and thanked their waitress with rote civility. He was doing that thing, that _David_ thing, where he got all cool and distant, his expression rigid, his eyes chipped. Joe couldn't figure out what set him off most of the time. He looked his food over, surprised by the rich smell, poked it with his fork. Huh, someone around here actually knew what they were doing. He tucked in, glancing up at David and raising a brow.  
"What?" Joe jabbed his fork at him, then at the people gathered around the bar. _What's the deal?_ "It's nothing." David fiddled with a bite of fish, then dropped it back to the plate. His mouth pulled one way, his eyes the other. _Out with it already_. Joe kicked him under the table, and David gave him a halfhearted glare. "I don't know how to do it anymore," he said abruptly. "Be around other people." _What the hell does that mean?_ "It's farcical. How can you forget how to talk to people, when you never get away from them? Before this summer, I hardly had an hour alone to myself. Four years at Taft, two at Harvard. An eternity in the Airborne. And I enjoyed it. There was always someone amusing to talk to, something happening or about to happen." He paused, gave Joe an almost bashful look. Joe shoveled a forkful of rice into his mouth, motioning to him to go on. "It started after I got home. I'd be at dinner with my family, or catching up with friends, and I suddenly wouldn't be able to understand what they were saying to me. But not-" His mouth moved as he fumbled. "Not that I couldn't understand their words. They just didn't mean anything. Words are symbols, right? I say 'fire' and you think of flames, or heat, or, I don't know, the beginnings of the human race. But I couldn't connect the words to anything, it was all just noise. God, am I making any sense?" He looked at Joe, his eyes starkly pleading.  
_No. But it sounds fucking awful_. Joe slumped in his seat, so that he could bump his knee against David's under the table. David's lip curled, humorless and grim; he looked down and took a bite of fish. Joe watched him eat and thought about his oma, putting the spindle into his hand, _Do you know what this turns? Everything_. And in the shop, bleeding and desperate, when he had grabbed the bottle and smashed it against the witch's face, what had he actually struck her with? A glass bottle, or the meaning behind it? So maybe he did know what David was trying to say. He sat up, rapped his knuckles against the table until David looked at him. Shit, what did he even want to tell him? He leaned forward, gestured to David's throat, his mouth. Then himself, his chest and his head. He stared hard at David. _Do you understand?_ David didn't answer, except to smile at him, the chill leaving his eyes.  
A weird mood seemed to settle over them after that. David got quiet, and Joe couldn't do anything to break the silence, but for once he didn't mind it. There wasn't any weight to it, not when he could glance up and see David looking stupidly pleased, looking at him. "Do you want another?" David asked him, after they finished their second round. Joe shook his head. He gestured to the door, their empty plates. _Let's get out of here_. "Home?" David didn't look at him as he spoke, turning to wave the waitress over. Joe smirked to himself as he crushed a chunk of ice between his teeth.   
Outside, Joe made sure to step in front as they cut across the parking lot. When they reached the car, he propped himself against the driver-side door and turned to look expectantly at David.   
"You want to drive?" _Don't sound so shocked_. Joe held out his hand, motioning impatiently. David grinned and fished out his keys. "You're full of surprises tonight, Lieb."  
Once in the car, Joe waited until David was settled into his seat, then took his hand. David gawked at him, and Joe lifted his arm, setting the haversack in his lap and wrapping his hand and arm around it. He squeezed his wrist and elbow, _You don't let go of this, you got that?_ David nodded at him, still open-mouthed; Joe let go of both him and the bag, turning away to start the engine.  
Joe had enjoyed or loathed driving a cab, depending on the day. You never knew what you were going to get, when someone opened the door and dropped into the back seat. He had shot the shit with all kinds of people. Driving across the same city day after day was dully comforting most of the time, every bridge and street mapped out in his head so that he hardly had to think, really. But other times it left him feeling restless, on edge, like he was trawling the limits of his world, vibrant and vast, still not big enough. It was a whole other feeling, driving some place new, even if he was passingly familiar with the layout of the island by now. It had something to do with the guy sitting beside him, but there was more to it than that. A feeling like nothing could possibly end, ever.  
"What now?" David intoned, when Joe turned the opposite direction of home, heading towards the ocean instead of inland. Joe elbowed him in the arm. _Cut the act, you love it_. He didn't know who David thought he was fooling with that bored tone; they had already established how thoroughly they understood one another. David groaned theatrically and shifted closer in his seat.  
They reached the line of shallow dunes that marked the beginning of the beach, and Joe tossed David a quick grin, then accelerated and drove straight over them, the engine humming like a dream, the rest of the car protesting loudly along with David, who threw an arm out against the dash to brace himself. "Fuck, Lieb! What the hell are you doing?" Joe wanted to laugh, could feel it all in his chest; he bared his teeth and let it eke out where it could, in a painful rictus of a smile, in his hand as he reached over and grabbed on to David's knee, his fingers digging into cloth and flesh. They bumped and rattled their way over the dunes, then across snow drifts and soft sediment, until they reached the surf where the wet and cold had packed the sand densely together. "God," David bit out, trying and failing to appear displeased. "You better not have gotten us stuck."  
_You think I can't look after you?_ Joe leaned in towards him, close enough to catch the resin of his breath, close enough to cause David to blink rapidly and then, _yes, fuck_ , tilt his head minutely nearer. Joe listened to him stop breathing, watched his inky black lashes lower, then snatched the haversack from his lap and pulled away, wanting to laugh again at David's expression. He left the engine on and got out, hopping up onto the hood. It was cold as a witch's tit, not that Joe had any first hand experience with that, and he rapped impatiently on the glass to get David moving.   
"Do you drive everyone insane," David asked, as he shut his door and slid in beside him, "or is it just me?"   
_What's it matter, you see anyone else around?_ Joe scooched closer until they were hip to hip, his body a contrast of temperatures. The car engine rumbling warm below him, David a source of heat in all its iterations against his side. He blew his breath out to watch it cloud, thinking about the awful winter he had spent in that ramshackle house in the woods. He'd been so fucking lonely, numb and miserable, it didn't seem possible for the cold to still hold any charm for him. But right now it did. He nudged David with his shoulder, gesturing out towards the ocean: the constant low boom of sound, the black that the car's headlights could only begin to pierce. _Can you believe all that?_  
"I know. There aren't any words." David leaned back against the window, his arm falling with feigned chance around Joe's waist. "Jumping is the only thing that can compare." He didn't sound angry or bitter, the way he usually did when he mentioned his time in the Airborne, just wearily indifferent. Joe poked his chest, pointed out towards the horizon. _You, over there. Tell me about it_. David looked at him, his hand on Joe's hip gripping and loosening in a compelling rhythm. "I kept a journal. Wrote in it whenever I could, from France to Austria. I had this absurd notion that I would get it published when I came home, slap it down on some editor's desk and watch their eyes go wide at the trove of thoughts and experiences I was offering them." He looked away, up towards the sky. "But everyone is fucking tired of war, myself included." His hand lifted, he pulled his arm away and crossed it against his chest. "It's in my room at the house. You can read it if you're interested."  
_No, idiot_. Joe grabbed his chin, forced him to look back at him. He touched his throat, his mouth. _Didn't I already tell you? Your eyes, your voice_. David stared at him, his gaze guarded.  
"I didn't." He stopped, tried again. "I'm not proud of it. I wasn't a good soldier by any definition of the term." He took Joe's hand, the one that was still lingering near his face, turned his palm back and forth. Joe wanted to yank it away, didn't like how intently David was looking at it, like he was marking each snarl of flesh, each raised or pocked scar. But he wanted to keep David talking. "I was the worst shot of the company," David said with a caustic laugh. "Maybe of the regiment. I could have not gone at all, it wouldn't have made a damned difference. The same men would have died, whether I had been there or not."  
_David, bärchen_. Joe pulled his hand free, fisted it in the collar of David's coat so he could give him a good hard shake. _No way that's true_.   
"Do you really want to hear about it?" Joe rolled his eyes and settled in beside him, huddling close. "What do you want to know?" David asked after a long moment. They were both looking at the sky, lit up all surreal, a great swathe of stars. Joe remembered trying to pick them out through cloud cover and city lights back home, a ten year old Judy at his side, consulting some book on constellations that she had gotten hold of. She picked up and discarded interests at the drop of a hat. She had begged him to let her take a door to some spot where she could get a better view, but he wouldn't let her. Now he wished he had done it, taken her some place like this, sat with her and searched out every fucking constellation in the hemisphere. Joe grabbed David's hand in his again, folding them together. No twining of fingers, a hard clasp instead, wrapping them around the sides of each other's hands. He squeezed, and David squeezed back, an instinctual response. "Do you mean my friends?" He asked, sounding surprised, relieved. "The men I served with?" Joe dropped his hand, knocked his knuckles against his arm in affirmation. "Well," David said, drawing the word out long as he considered. "Do you remember that call I got, a couple weeks after you came to stay? That was George Luz, the company comedian. He was one of the first guys I met when I arrived at Toccoa - that was the camp where they sent us for paratrooper training - and he was one of the few guys who didn't treat me like a replacement when I rejoined the company after being in a hospital for months."  
Joe traced patterns in the stars, bright cold points. He listened to the waves and the muttering of the engine below him, breathed in the combating scents of exhaust and brine. The whole damn universe was either fire or ice, and then there was David, rambling on beside him, something else entirely. He shoved their shoulders together and listened.  
When it came to the autobiographical, David wasn't much of a storyteller. He jumped all over the place, backwards and forwards in time, moving haphazardly across both Europe and the States. Joe learned that Winters had ended up leading the company, and eventually the entire regiment. He learned that David had gotten shot while routing Krauts who had infiltrated their line, one platoon against two companies of SS. David described jump training, drunken revelries in England and Austria, his relief at being reunited with the company, despite the cold reception he received from them. _What a bunch of assholes_ , Joe thought, the two of them walking just outside the surf's reach now, having wordlessly agreed that they had been sitting too long. Who the fuck wouldn't be happy to have David back with them, regardless of what he might have missed or how long he had been away? The guy was one of a kind. He knew David was telling him the easy stuff, the stuff that words stuck more lightly to. That was fine by him; Joe didn't want to think too much on the shit that he might have been able to keep David from and hadn't. He should have been there with him.   
It was strange, listening to David talk with nothing in his hands to occupy himself with, no work to keep his eyes trained on. Joe found himself tugging on his lip, fiddling with his lighter, his fingers searching for something to manipulate. Unlike Joe, David didn't seem to feel the need to do anything with his hands; he settled them in his pockets or against his legs as he spoke, steady and deliberate in his motions. They moved along the beach, returned to the hood of the car, the cold eventually driving them back inside, Joe behind the wheel and David turned in his seat towards him. Who would have thought that he would enjoy it, listening to one person talk at such length? Joe couldn't stand guys enamored with their own voices, their boring opinions. But David, for all that he babbled on, wasn't like that.   
David eventually ran himself down, and they moved back outside for a smoke, standing together against the side of the car. Joe didn't know or care what hour it might be, how long they had been out there. It was just an interlude, he knew, a little space of time he had snatched greedily for himself. Tomorrow he would get back to work, the final shirt. _Just give it until sunrise_ , he bargained with himself. _You can afford a couple more hours_.  
"I know we should head back," David said, as if picking up on Joe's thoughts. "But I don't want to." Joe turned to face him, bracing his hip against the car and tugging on David's arm until he did the same. He stared at him, reaching into his coat to find the edge of his sweater, the thin shirt beneath. He hooked his hand behind his belt, ran his knuckles slowly along the space between David's hipbones. The answering flex and shudder of flesh, the soft inhale of breath. David's mouth parted, and Joe smirked at him. _You sure you don't want to go back?_  
"Fuck," David said with a punch of exhaled smoke. He laughed, short and sharp, almost glaring at Joe, as if daring him to give some sign that he didn't mean it. "Let's go, then," he said, his voice tightly leashed.  
_How the fuck are you going to pull this one off_ , Joe asked himself, as he drove the car along the edge of the beach, picking up speed before starting the trek across the looser sand. He hadn't had any reason to evaluate himself before, but looking back he thought he maybe had a tendency to get loud during sex. Well, how the hell else was a guy to know if he was doing lousy or spectacular, unless Joe told him? And how was he was supposed to not curse or shout, with a wet mouth or the hot squeeze of muscles around his cock? Jesus Christ, just the thought of getting David like that made him want to groan. He bit down on the inside of his cheek as they bounced across the dunes. It was going to be tricky, it could turn into a real shit show. He glanced over at David, an unmoving block of stone beside him. David caught his glance and threw a bare-knuckled sort of look back at him, all stiff defiance, and Joe's problem, he knew, was that he had never been able to back down from a challenge. _Fuck, alright_ , Joe thought, anticipation a low tight knot at the base of his spine. _I'm gonna take you apart_.  
The space between them was thick with crackling silence; if he raised his arm, Joe wouldn't have been surprised to see it light up with electric blue sparks. Thank Jesus it was a short drive back, he could hardly stand the weight of David's eyes, the way his skin pebbled up in response. They pulled to a stop in front of the house, lit up like a warm beacon against the heavy snowdrifts, the velvet dark of the night. Joe turned and glared at David. _Get in the house_. David licked his lips, a nervous gesture, but it still worked like a charm on Joe, an internal ratchet tightening further. He got out after David, following close on his heels. David stuck the key in the lock, and Joe resisted the urge to push into him, hustle him inside more quickly, so he could get to work peeling him out of his clothes. David hesitated at the door, his shoulders stiffening. _Jesus, don't get cold feet on me now_ , Joe thought, reaching over to grip him by his waist, but then David turned and Joe saw the fixed expression on his face.  
"The door's not locked," he whispered harshly. He grabbed Joe by the arm and pulled him off the porch, ducking around the corner of the house. Joe followed along blankly. "I know I locked it when we left," David muttered close to his ear. "Should we get back to the car?"  
It wasn't Graf, he was almost certain. She wouldn't make a move so quickly, and she definitely wouldn't bother coming through the front door when she did. Joe scrubbed a hand along the back of his neck; it felt fine, no unsettled crawling of the skin. He shook David's hand loose, gestured to the window. _Let's take a look_. "Are you sure?" Joe nodded, gave David a light shove.  
They crept back up the porch, David holding an arm out to keep Joe behind him, which was fucking annoying, but he would let it slide this one time. David approached the edge of the window, sidling up alongside it and turning his head carefully to peer inside. The arm he had pressed against Joe's chest dropped.  
"What the hell?" He said, too loud. He went to the door and threw it open.  
"Call the Bureau back, Mother, he's turned up alive and well," a cheerful voice said from somewhere inside.  
"There, you see Joan, you've worried for nothing," a second, deeper voice said. Joe poked his head around David's shoulder. Two men were sitting on either end of the couch, the older one smoking a cigar, the younger one holding a tumbler propped against his knee. They were both shockingly similar in face and form to David.   
"What the hell is going on here?" David said, the way a guy might sound if he walked in on his wife two-timing him. The older man frowned.  
"I won't have you-" he began.  
"Kenyon," someone said from further in the house. The rapid click of heels on the wooden floor, and a woman appeared, a long slim blonde. "You can't know how worried I've been."  
"Mother," David said woodenly, stepping forward and bending his head to accept a kiss on the cheek. "What are you doing here?"  
"Well, we meant to surprise you."  
"I am surprised-" David started to answer.  
"Don't tell pretty lies to spare him, Joan," the older man, David's father, said sternly. "There was no surprise planned, you would have known to expect us had you taken our calls." His eyes shifted suddenly to Joe. "Do you intend to shut that door?"   
Shit, what had he gotten himself into now? Joe stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.  
"Where's Anne?" David asked.  
"Here." A young woman came through the doorway, dressed in flannel pajamas, her dark hair in a long braid down her back. A pair of thick glasses were settled on her nose. "Where have you been?"  
"I went. Well, we." David glanced back at Joe. "We went out for a drink."  
"And this is the friend you've had staying over?" Mrs. Webster almost managed to keep the pointed inflection off the word 'friend.' She smiled coolly at Joe. She looked nothing like David, except for her pale blue eyes.  
"Yes, uh." David fumbled, taking a backwards step to stand beside him. "This is Lieb. Lieb, this is my father, David Sr., and Joan, my mother." He gestured towards his brother and sister. "That's John and Anne."  
"I hope your ears weren't burning too badly, Ken," John said, acknowledging Joe with a careless wave of his hand. "Father was verging on apoplectic when we couldn't get hold of you at the terminal."  
"We had to accept a lift from a local," Anne said in offended tones. "I think he was some sort of repairman."  
"Don't be a prude, Anne." John stood up and crossed to the sideboard to refill his drink. "He does maintenance on the steamboats."  
Mrs. Webster gave a strained laugh. "John's already struck up an island friendship, as you can see."  
"Just like Kenyon," Anne said, giving Joe a cold look.  
"Well, we never saw anyone other than the same old crowd when we summered here. I think it's refreshing, talking to someone new." John tossed his drink back and gestured to David with the empty glass. "Ken agrees with me, I'm sure."  
"I think it's fine," Mr. Webster said. "It's a skill that will serve you well in business, being able to talk easily with people from all walks of life."  
"Yes, Father, that's what I thought too," John said, shooting David a droll look. David didn't notice.  
"This is all very interesting," he drawled, glaring at his father, "but why are you here?" Mr. Webster bristled.  
"It's still my damned house, isn't it? I'm holding on to it at a loss to entertain your boyish notions -"  
"Dear, please, we've just arrived after all," Mrs. Webster interjected thinly.  
"It's almost Christmas."   
David turned to look at Anne, who was staring at him challengingly. "I'm aware of the date," he answered dryly.  
"Everyone talks as if you're clever," she said acidly. "Isn't it obvious? Christmas, family, the very nice picture we could take gathered together around a tree?" She glanced again at Joe. "Most of us, at least."  
"Anne, your tone is unbecoming." Mrs. Webster didn't look at her daughter, only had eyes for David. She put a hesitant hand on his arm. "We thought we might bring the holidays to you this year. Doesn't that sound lovely?" Her eyes brimmed with sudden feeling. "It's been quite some time since we were all here together."   
David seemed to deflate. "Yes, it has," he sighed. He gave her hand an uncomfortable pat. "And I'm, that is." He turned to look at Joe, his face stiffly set, a stricken plea for help written all across his features. Joe wondered how David's family couldn't see it, how overwhelmed he was by their presence. He rolled his eyes at him, nudged him with his elbow. _Go on, idiot, say what you mean. I'm right here_. David turned back to his family.  
"I'm glad you're here," he said, slowly, the slightest hint of a question in his voice, like he was speaking some foreign language and wasn't sure he had gotten it right. Mrs. Webster smiled, her first real one since they had walked through the door, warm with relief. But the look she turned on Joe was piercing.


	12. Chapter 12

Joe sat in the middle of his bed and beamed the warp, scowling at the loom as he worked. He hated weaving, he would rather tear his hands to pieces working nettle than sit and fight with this stupid loom. You couldn't do anything else, with your hands or thoughts, that was what was so damn irritating about it. When he spun, Joe could let his mind wander, tell himself stories or talk to his family in his head. But there wasn't space for anything else except the task in front of him when he wove. The hours dragged by, the fabric came together in infuriatingly small increments. Mostly it made Joe want to punch something, and that feeling wasn't helped right now, having to sit and listen to the sound of angry voices rising up through the floorboards.  
David was arguing with his old man. They had been at it for over an hour; Joe didn't know how anybody was getting any sleep with the way they were carrying on. Probably they weren't, probably they were sitting in their rooms just like him, wishing the two of them would shut the hell up. Joe glanced out the window, where the sky was beginning to lighten, the start of another dawn. Just a few hours ago he had been imagining a completely different scenario for himself. If it had all continued to go the way that it had definitely been going, David would be wearing out right about now, Joe would have just now allowed him to collapse back on the bed. They would have slept in, on top of the covers at first because they would have worked up a nice sweat together, but eventually the cold would have gotten to them and they would have crawled beneath the blankets, and David would have slept well for once, and-  
_And what? He'd blow you awake and the two of you would go downstairs together and play house?_  
Fuck, maybe it was for the best. It would have been a huge goddamn mistake, he had known it was a mistake even as he ran headlong towards it. A dodged bullet, that's what it was. Joe glared at the dawn, at his empty room.  
The raised voices ended abruptly, punctuated by the sound of a slammed door. Joe stopped for a moment, tilting his head and listening intently. Sure enough, he heard the stair door scraping open, David's familiar footsteps echoing off the close wooden walls. He didn't know how to feel about the fact that he had known David would come straight to him, didn't know if it pleased or unnerved or enraged him. He watched the door, and when David opened it and gave him an angrily beseeching look, Joe gestured him in with a jerk of his chin.  
"Lieb, I'm so fucking sorry." David crossed the room and tossed himself down beside Joe on the bed, bracing his elbows on his knees and scrubbing both hands along his face. Joe didn't answer him, just went on beaming, and David reached restlessly out, picking up the skein of yarn and rolling it back and forth between his palms. "Hell has frozen over, it's the only rational explanation. I still can't believe they're here." He unspooled a length of yarn, then wound it back up. "Maybe I can help you with this," he said listlessly, then, before Joe could respond, "I'm sorry about Anne. She's not normally like that."  
I don't care. Shit, at least she had been honest. He was sure David's family thought him a grifter at best; why the hell would they have anything pleasant to say to him? He had been a problem before, but a distant one, easily dismissed or put off to address on a different day. But there wasn't any getting around the weird mute living in their home anymore. That wasn't going to work. He dropped the loom, plucked the yarn from David's hand. He pushed on his shoulder, shifting them both around to face each other. _Listen, you know what I'm gonna say._ He pointed to his pack, the door.   
"No." David's hand lifted, pulled back. He settled it deliberately along his leg instead, his fingers curling around his knee. "Why, because my family's shown up? It's just a few weeks." His lips were pinched and white, hard lines creasing his cheeks and the space between his eyes. It was the worst timing, throwing some tense goodbye at David after the night they'd had and while he was still wound tight from fighting with his old man, but putting it off wasn't going to make it any easier. Joe picked up his loom, shook it under David's nose. Then he held up his hand, the five fingers spread wide apart, pulling them slowly together. He tapped David meaningfully on his chest. _I've got work to do, and you have things to take care of_. "Is that supposed to represent my family?" David asked, his lip curling humorlessly. "That's not going to happen, whether you're here or not. You don't understand what they're like."  
_No, sweetheart, you're the one who doesn't understand_. Sure, they all had sticks of various lengths stuck up their asses, but there was only one reason they had made the trip out here, and it was David. That shit was important; Joe knew that better than anybody. He glared at David, trying to think how to tell him.  
"Just answer this." There was zero chance of them being overheard or walked in on unawares, but David still lowered his voice, leaning his head in toward Joe. "Is my family in danger because you're here? Is there a chance the men who are after you could come back?"  
_The men who are after me? You really think you've got it all figured out, huh?_ Joe wanted to push him backwards off the bed, he was so damn annoying. He started to lift his hand to answer, and David caught it in his own, a hard grip.  
"Don't lie to me, Lieb," he said coldly. "You're not as good at it as you think." Joe scowled, yanked his hand free. He glared down at the loom.  
No, they probably weren't in any danger. Graf hadn't harmed a human as far a Joe knew; he suspected she couldn't, that doing so would end the game and hand the victory to his oma. But that wasn't the point. The point was...fuck, what was the fucking point? Joe glanced at David, watching him expectantly, tired and grim. The point was, now that David's family had arrived, Joe was doing him more harm than good by sticking around.   
"I can't tell what you're thinking," David said, shaking his head in muggy frustration. "Look, I. I'm not going to say anything so saccharine as, I need you to stay. But I want you to." He didn't flush or look away, didn't look uncomfortable in the slightest, just stared earnestly at Joe. "It's selfish of me, I suppose. But I want you here with me."  
 _Jesus, you're lethal, you know that?_ It was some sort of dirty trick, hitting him with the eyes and the low level voice and the unflinching honesty. Joe reached up and curled his hand in the fabric of David's sweater, smirking despite himself. He shook him, then gave him a shove. David grinned at him, crooked and hopeful.  
"So you'll stay?" _Yeah, asshole, I'll stay_. "Thank God." David collapsed back on the bed, one arm thrown out wide, the other folded across his stomach. "And you'll let me hide up here?" Joe sneered. _Don't push your luck_. "Just every now and then," David said, bargaining with brazen confidence now. Joe picked up the loom and ignored him. He half expected David to start up with a string of wild stories like he usually did, but he stayed quiet, and when Joe looked over at him a few minutes later, he saw that he had fallen asleep. _Unbelievable_. He should kick him in the ribs, take him by the neck and haul him downstairs to his own damn room. But fuck, the guy was exhausted, and Joe didn't have the stomach to be hard on him, not this morning at least. But he also didn't have the necessary discipline to sit so close to David, stretched out across the bed and breathing deep and slow, and not get caught up thinking about all the shit he had been planning on doing to him. Joe stuffed the loom back into his haversack and left the bed, snatching a spare blanket from the side table. He plunked himself down in the chair, half jumping back up when an errant spring stabbed at his spine. Kicked out of his own bed, forced to bunk down in a chair that should have been set on fire years ago. What bullshit. Joe curled down as best he could into the cushions, his haversack clutched in his arms. He watched David until his eyes grew too heavy to keep open anymore.  
When he woke up, David hadn't moved except to pull the quilt over himself, still sprawled out on his back, his mouth open. Joe grimaced as he sat up, glancing toward the window in an attempt to judge the time. Who the hell knew? Judging by the state of his back, he had slept for a couple hours at least. He stood and stretched, shouldered his haversack.  
What he really wanted was breakfast, but the house was a minefield now, riddled with Websters. Joe didn't like his odds of getting through the house without encountering at least one of them. But what else was he going to do, sit here and keep staring at David? Anyway, he had his shortcuts. He went to the door, opened it to the kitchen.  
The light was on, the percolator sitting on the stove and giving off the scent of fresh coffee, but the room was empty. _Lucky break,_ Joe thought, stepping into the room and grabbing a mug and saucer from the cabinet. It hadn't taken David long to figure out Joe's breakfast preferences, proof of which being the half-eaten cake sitting on the counter that he had bought a few days back. Joe helped himself to a generous serving of both cake and coffee, sticking the knife into his mouth to suck the soft crumbs and sweet clinging jam off.  
"Good morning." _Aw, hell_. He turned around, the butter knife still clenched between his teeth, as David's mother walked into the kitchen. "Lieb, isn't it?" She asked, circling him to reach the refrigerator. "You're very quiet. I didn't hear you come down." _Huh, how 'bout that?_ She stood looking at him with one hand on the refrigerator handle, her expression neutral. Joe popped the knife out of his mouth and set it in the sink. "We're happy to have you," she said evenly, still not moving, still watching him. "I'm pleased that Kenyon hasn't spent his time here entirely alone. How have you found our home?" Joe gestured vaguely with his hands. _It's nice, it's big_. She watched him carefully, then turned away. "I'm afraid I don't understand you," she said, opening the refrigerator and pulling out milk, eggs. "I wonder how Kenyon has managed. He was always fascinated with the strangest things."   
A moment ago, all Joe had wanted was to snatch some food and disappear back upstairs. But that was before she started to piss him off. He propped his hip on the counter and took a bite of cake, watching as she moved around the kitchen, gathering ingredients. She glanced over at him, the slightest of frowns marring her features. "Is there something that you need?" Joe shook his head, motioning towards the flour she was holding, the stove. _You need a hand? Know what you're doing?_ She had a neatly composed efficiency to the way she moved, but it was pretty clear that she was selecting ingredients haphazardly, a domestic little show put on with the intention of driving him away, first from the kitchen, and eventually from David. Her frown deepened. "That's very kind of you," she said, rigidly polite, "but I don't need help." Joe mimed whisking, chopping. _I ain't bad in the kitchen_. A tight, unhappy little smile cracked her lips.  
"Is that what you've been doing for my son?" She asked, a flutter of emotion breaking through her voice. "Have you been." She stopped, glancing down at the bag of flour. "I think perhaps you've been looking after him."  
_Well, I'm not his keeper or anything_. But yeah, David needed somebody to jar him out of his sulks, and Joe got a kick out of irritating him. He doubted that she would understand him, but he attempted it anyways, gesturing between them, trying to tell her with his hands and his face. _He's been okay. He reads, he walks around outside. We talk_. Fuck, what he wouldn't give to be able to say something similar to his own mother. _I'm fixing it_ , he would say. _I'm not alone_. Mrs. Webster stared at him, her eyes flickering back and forth between his face and his hands.  
"The truth is," she said, all in a rush, and then stopped, as if she had startled herself. Her mouth curled slowly up, David's smile. "The truth is, we never were the sort of family to get up early enough for a proper breakfast." She set the flour down on the counter. "I may as well have cake." Joe smirked at her, and this time when she turned away, her shoulder set in a cool dismissal, he took his cue and left.   
John was standing in the doorway of David's bedroom when Joe came upstairs. He looked over as Joe approached. "Oh, hello again," he said, like they had bumped into each other by surprise on the street. He gestured into David's bedroom; he was carrying a small wooden box in his hand. "Know where he disappeared to, by any chance?" Joe nodded, motioning with his head for John to follow him. "What on earth made Ken think to stow you away up here?" John asked, trailing Joe up the steps. "Didn't he tell you about the attic's resident restless spirit?" Joe stopped on the top step, turning around to look at him. _Jesus, tell me you're fucking joking_. John grinned, a quick flash of white teeth, nothing like David's smile. "It's wildly untrue, of course. But we did enjoy terrorizing Anne with ghost tales when she was little."  
_What, you're a storyteller too?_ Joe rolled his eyes and led John into the bedroom, where David was still doing his Snow White impression, with the skin and the hair and the lips. John stopped in the doorway, his expression clouding with something as he stared at David, stretched out across Joe's bed. Joe watched his face shift, from confusion to consternation to abrupt dismissal.   
"Trying to not be found, is he?" He said to Joe, grinning easily again, his voice pitched low. "I'll find him later, then." He turned to leave, and Joe stuck a foot out to stop him. He gestured to John to wait, a hell of a feat considering the fact that he was still carting around his barely touched breakfast. His mug of coffee he held out towards John, nodding extravagantly at it until John caught on and took it from him. Once he had a free hand, he crossed the room and grabbed hold of David's shoulder, shaking him violently. _Wake up, princess, we got company_. David gave a rumbling, chesty groan, pure fucking sex, and rolled over to look at him, all heavy limbs and slowly blinking blue eyes.   
"Breakfast in bed?" He asked, taking in the slice of cake Joe was still holding. His mouth curled up in a self-satisfied smile. His lips parted, Joe knew he was going to make some ham-fisted attempt at flirting, so he cut him off with a quick jab to his solar plexus. David grunted, still grinning, and Joe scowled at him, gesturing over his shoulder with a jerk of his chin. David lifted his head; his smile slipped half away. "Oh," he said, after a beat of silence. "Hey."  
"Morning," John answered blithely. "Is it still morning?"  
"You're asking me?" David sat up, glancing towards the window.  
"Can't be past noon. Doesn't matter, we're on holiday hours, aren't we?" John lifted the small box for David to see. "I thought you might be interested in losing to me in a few rounds of bones."  
"Where did you find those," David said, trying to act like he wasn't surprised, amused.  
"In my room." John looked over at Joe. "Ken's never won, not once, not even against Anne. It was very upsetting for mother and father; he's supposed to be the smart one, after all."  
"It's a game of chance," David said, then grimaced. "Mostly."  
"Hardly," John drawled. "Well, what do you say?"   
"Alright," David sighed. "What the hell." He got up, and he and John settled across from each other on the floor. Joe sat on the edge of the bed and ate his breakfast, then passed out smokes and watched them play.  
He had only met the lot of them last night, but it was already clear that David had an easier relationship with his brother than he did the rest of his family. John was that type of guy, the kind that would laugh anything off rather than have an opinion about it. Jocular and overeager, like a dog. He would be easily dismissed, if it wasn't obvious how he looked up to David. It was also painfully obvious that David didn't notice. It was some kind of goddamn miracle that the guy had made it through an entire war, he was so oblivious to the shit around him. Joe shook his head in disgust, and David caught him, quirking a questioning brow at him. Joe waved him off, moving across the room and pulling the spindle and distaff from his bag. He settled in the chair, propped the distaff against his leg.  
"What on earth are you doing?" John asked. Joe ignored him, and David didn't look up as he answered.   
"Lieb works in textiles. Everything made by hand, from start to finish." He threw Joe a provocative glance. "He was apprenticed under a blind weaver, who identified the different colored threads by the minute variances in the smell of the dye." Joe bared his teeth at him.  
"Really?" John said, only half listening as he placed another domino. "Father and mother think he's a vagrant."  
"Don't be an ass, John," David snapped. John looked up, blinking in surprise.  
"You know how they are," he said defensively. "It's not what I think."  
"I didn't ask what they thought, or you for that matter. He's sitting right there. Just because he can't speak doesn't mean he can't understand what you're saying."  
"I know that," John replied, shooting a quick glance at Joe. "I didn't mean anything by it."  
"Then why-" Joe stomped his foot to get David's attention and stop him from talking. He glared at him, motioned with his hand. _I don't fucking need you taking up for me_. David's jaw clenched; he stared at Joe for a moment, then looked back to John. "Forget it. Let's just finish the game." John looked back and forth between them; Joe shrugged a shoulder at him when he caught his eye, _Don't sweat it_ , but John didn't give any sign that he understood what he was trying to say.  
"How are things?" David asked stiltedly. He glanced up at John, then down at the tiles. "How was your semester?"  
"Oh, I'm managing," John answered, the relief clear in his voice. "I won't be graduating this spring, though. Couldn't scrape up the grades. Father's furious with me, naturally."  
"He'd be more displeased if you were overly studious. Believe me, you've chosen the lesser of two evils, running a little wild during your university years."  
"Well it's certainly more fun." David grinned and shook his head.  
They played a couple rounds, then John convinced David to go down with him to find something to eat. David tried to get Joe to come along, but Joe shrugged him off. He had work to do, and a new, pulsing urgency pushing him on, now that he was so close, now that his and David's time together had almost run itself down. He had gotten too complacent, he reflected, after David and his brother had gone and he was left alone in the chill quiet. When you had somebody beside you, a warm voice filling the room, it could almost be enjoyable, sitting and setting the spindle to whirling. But that wasn't how it was supposed to be. He wasn't supposed to be happy; his oma had told him as much. _You will suffer in this work, you will suffer in your silence_. Time to pick it back up, then. Time to start letting the rest of it go. He spun until the joints of his hands started to twinge and flare with pain, then got up and paced around the room for a bit before pulling out the loom. When he broke the curse, when he had his family back and safely together, the first thing he was going to do to celebrate would be to burn this goddamn loom. Not the distaff and spindle, though. They were his oma's, evil witch that she was; they were practically family heirlooms. Would he see her again, when this was all over? Did he want to see her? Fuck, what was he going to tell his sisters and brother, his father? All the shit he hadn't even begun to think through, all the shit that came after the end of the tale.   
Someone knocked on his door; Joe looked up as David walked in, carrying a plate and a slim stack of envelopes. "You do realize that you've been up here all day," David said, sitting down on the bed beside Joe. "Here, I brought you some dinner. Meatloaf, one of the few things my mother can passably cook." Joe tossed the loom to the side and took the plate. He flicked a questioning finger against the envelopes in David's hand. "Letters from my company that arrived at the house in Westchester. I would've preferred for them to have been forwarded on to me immediately, but at least they got here." David looked at him a moment, then gave him a smugly conspiratorial smile. "Would you like to read them? Now that we both know that you can read."  
He did. He should probably act like he didn't give a shit, because why the hell would he? They didn't mean anything to him as far as David knew, those kids he had left behind. But Jesus, it would be good to read something from them, even if it wasn't meant for him. Joe tried to shrug like he could care less, even as he snatched the letter David was offering out to him.  
Three of them were from guys he didn't know, who must have joined Easy after he had already left. Those Joe gave a cursory skim, looking for names he recognized or any mention of something to do with David. But there was a letter from Alley, and another from Christenson, and those he read carefully, especially Pat's; he was an Oakland native, after all, and Joe was starving for home.   
His letter was boring, mostly. He had gotten married, had gone to the last Easy reunion and hoped that David could make the next one. Then he mentioned Chuck, and something about having made the drive down south to see how he was recovering. _Recovering from what?_ The war had ended more than two years ago, what the hell could be wrong with him? Pat didn't say, only that Grant had trouble speaking, but didn't have any difficulty getting around and seemed to be in good spirits.  
"What's wrong?" Joe looked up; David was watching him with a worried, searching gaze. _Fuck, what happened to him?_ He had always liked Chuck. Joe pointed to the portion of Pat's letter that talked about him, schooling his features to something that David would hopefully read as idle interest. David took the letter back, frowning as he read where Joe had indicated.  
"Oh. Grant." He set the paper to the side, his lips pressing flat. "Another horror of war: you're not safe from its effects, even after it's supposed to be over. He fought in France, in Holland and Belgium, and was only hit once. They moved us to Austria, possibly the most beautiful country in the world, and without a doubt the most desirable place to get assigned occupation duty. Then he gets shot in the head, by a drunken soldier of his own regiment." Jesus Christ. "We thought, or I thought at least, that he was dead for sure, that he couldn't possibly survive it. But our captain found a surgeon, and he lived." He glanced down at the letter. "He's doing well, all things considered." He looked at Joe again, sharp, assessing. "Are you alright?" Joe turned away, picking the plate up and shoveling a forkful of meatloaf into his mouth. Forget the fucking letters, he didn't want to know anything more about any of it. He ate as quickly as possible, then got back to weaving, and David sat beside him and talked the same as he always did, but his eyes, whenever Joe happened to glance over at him, were weighing, his thoughts hidden away.


	13. Chapter 13

David's family didn't leave after Christmas.  
"They're staying through January now," David told him, a few days after New Year's. "Mother's determined to find it charming, the idea of spending the winter away from her usual social scene." Joe lit a smoke and held it out to him, and David took it with a murmured thanks, then paced over to the window, bracing his arm against the sill. "She's been on father for years to take a sabbatical from work, and now, inexplicably, he's decided to listen to her." He turned to look at Joe as he came to stand beside him at the window. "John's happy for any excuse to stay, now that he's found some entertainment for himself, and Anne, well." He shook his head. "Who the hell knows."  
_Quit complaining_. Joe pointed to David, then raised his hand, the five stiffly held fingers having become their accepted symbol for David and his family. He pushed them firmly into David's chest. _They're your family, do you even get what that means?_   
"This isn't a fairy-tale, Lieb," David said shortly. "Wishing that things were different is the easy the part. Even before I enlisted we barely understood each other." _So what, you're waiting for someone else to take care of it for you?_ Joe sneered, motioning towards the chair where he had dropped the beginnings of Klara's shirt. _It takes time, fucking work_. David stared at the shirt for a long moment, then looked back over at Joe.  
"Is that what it means to you?" He asked softly. "You struggle and seethe over it, because it represents somebody? Someone who's important to you?" _Fuck, don't talk about them_. David shook his head wonderingly, then walked over to the chair and picked up the shirt. If it were anyone but David, Joe thought he would probably tear their throat out before he let them touch it. His hands twitched; he shoved them in his pockets and scowled at David when he looked at him. "You don't do it to punish yourself. You make these with a person in mind."  
It was terrifying, these little moments when David brushed close to the truth. Joe stomped over to him and snatched the shirt from his hands. "Lieb, please." The warm graze of fingers against his arm, David's low, halting voice. "If you would tell me what you needed me to do, I'd do it." Sometimes Joe thought he might hate David, how he wouldn't leave it alone, wouldn't stop making stupid declarations that he didn't even understand the meaning of. Joe yanked his arm away, jerked his chin towards the door. _Get out, leave me the hell alone_. He watched the heat of anger flare up in David's eyes, stared flatly back until it leeched away, something frigid left in its place. David gave a cold, abrupt laugh, his gaze dropping down to the space between them.  
"Fine. I'll leave you to it." He turned on his heel and left the room, and Joe closed the door behind him.  
David might not like it, but Joe didn't care. He wasn't going to let the guy hide away up here, use him as a reason to avoid his family. He wasn't going to be some riddle that David used to distract himself from his life and the people in it. It had started to occur to Joe, as time went on and he began trying to put some space between them, that he and David had been using each other. Shit, it had always been about using David; Joe had needed a safe place to stay, and David was the lonely rich asshole that the door had delivered him to. Somewhere along the way he had let himself get distracted, let himself forget that David was just a means to the end. But David had been using him, too. Joe was a puzzle to work out, something that David could channel all his loose ends into. Well, that was over now. He figured he was only a month or so away from finishing the fifth shirt, so long as he buckled down and kept at it like he had been. Then he would go back home and it wouldn't matter, the way they had talked to each other, understood each other. Something twisted in his chest, pulling painfully tight; he rubbed the heel of his palm against the spot until the feeling eased.  
They weren't even that bad, David's family. Okay, they were fucking awful, actually, but they cared about each other in their own weird, fucked up way. It was enough to make Joe cringe, watching David's mother try to navigate the gaps, incapable of dropping her carefully rehearsed poise. His father was worse, all bluster, carping and criticizing to cover the fact that his children were a mystery to him. And now John was gone most days, having found a group of guys on the island to run around with, and he had been the only one that David seemed to have any kind of good relationship with. Anne, meanwhile, was a bullet, hard piercing metal, so full of vitriol that David's entire family just tried to stay out of her way. Sometimes she reminded Joe of Gertie, or Klara, both of whom had a tendency to say wildly outrageous shit to get a rise out of the rest of the family, or just to get a little attention. Joe could almost commiserate with her, the way she stalked around the house looking for a target, funneling it all into cold fury.   
"Everyone thinks you're insane." Joe had been weaving, curled up on himself on the bed to try and keep warm. He had assumed the footsteps on the stairs belonged to David; he nearly jumped when he heard Anne's voice instead, looking up to see her standing in the doorway. "Not John, but only because it hasn't occurred to him yet. He's so insufferably self-occupied." She stepped into the room, her chin lifted, daring Joe to hit back. "Kenyon thinks so, too. You realize that, don't you?" Joe grimaced at her and set the loom to the side. "You don't know him like we do. You're his newest project, that's all. The madman he fished from the sea. He'll probably write some horrid little poem about you, after you've gone." _Jesus, burn it for me if he does_. Joe grinned, but it felt more like a snarl, and it must have looked like it too, because Anne blinked in surprise. She recovered quickly, a new light in her dark eyes, pleased to have seen she landed a blow. "My brother only deals in ideas," she said, drifting closer to the bed. "They get him into all sorts of regrettable situations. His last grand idea had him jumping out of planes in Europe, and I'm sure you know how that turned out for him. Reality is always a disappointment to Kenyon."  
 _You're no dreamer, not like him_. Joe looked at her, hard admiration rising grudgingly up in his chest. She was practical, and there wasn't anything to dislike about that. She saw shit the way it actually was, no tinted glass, no romantics. She definitely had a better handle on David than the rest of his family seemed to. And she knew instinctually where to strike to draw blood. He nodded to her, gesturing to the edge of the bed. _Sit down_. Anne's brow creased, she looked for a moment like she might back out the door, but then her spine stiffened; she paced over and set herself primly on the corner of the mattress. Joe reached behind him for his haversack, fumbling around inside until he produced his pack of Chesterfields. He held it out towards Anne, shaking it questioningly.  
"No," Anne said, tight and offended. "That's disgusting." _Suit yourself_. He lit one for himself and tossed the pack back into his bag, then motioned encouragingly to Anne. _Go on, tell me more about him_. He got the feeling he would get a more reliable report about David from her then he would from anyone else, including David himself.  
"Why would I want to talk to you?" Anne asked coldly. _You came up here, didn't you? But I get it, nothing comes free_. He stretched his arm back along the bed, reaching under the pillows and pulling out a Baby Ruth. He tossed it to her, and she caught it, her mouth dropping open in surprise. Joe winked at her when she looked back up at him. _How 'bout now?_   
"I tell you that you're not real to him, and you give me a chocolate bar." Her voice was flat, the emotion smothered.  
_Look at me, kid_. Joe gestured to himself, the drafty attic room, the worn and battered haversack that contained his world, only half-filled. _You think you're gonna tell me something that changes any of this?_ Anne stared at him, her eyes sharp with thought.  
"I don't want this," she said, tossing the candy bar back to him and standing up. She walked to the door, hesitated, then turned around. "You should leave before they throw you out, that's all. Kenyon's already losing interest, and the whole reason mother and father decided to come here was to convince him to come back home. You don't have much time left."  
_Don't I know it_ , Joe thought grimly, as she turned away and started down the stairs.   
It was stupid, the way he was letting it get to him, rattle him up. Fuck, he'd gone nearly five years alone. Less than six months of living like a goddamn nun with David, and he suddenly couldn't cut it anymore? And for what? For a guy who preferred stories over his own life. _Always fascinated with the strangest things_ , his mother had said. And Anne, even more cutting, _My brother only deals in ideas_. It shouldn't fucking matter, it shouldn't make one damn difference. But he couldn't get it out of his head.   
Anne was right, that was the thing. David was drawing back. He still appeared in the doorway each day, still paced across the floor or stretched himself out across the bed, talking to Joe as he worked. But he was hiding something, in his eyes and his voice. Sometimes Joe would look over and catch David watching him in a new way, speculative, coolly detached. Joe didn't know what it meant, but then again, David wasn't an idiot, despite the number of times Joe had called him precisely that in his head. He had to know that it was ending, whatever the hell it had been.   
Mostly he didn't think about it. He passed the time the way he used to before he fell into David's life; by thinking out all the different ways he'd like to kill Adele Graf. Hate was easier than the alternative, hate was a fucking relief. So Joe didn't think about the evasive slide of David's eyes when he mentioned something about needing to go into town, a new habit that Joe initially thought had to do with avoiding his family, but he was now starting to realize had more to do with avoiding him. He didn't think about the way David's parents and sister watched him when he slunk around the house, the castigation in their eyes and their silence. And he didn't answer that voice, that burrowing voice, the one asking him what the hell he was still doing here, why he hadn't left.   
None of it mattered, anyway. The last shirt was all that mattered. It was a fucking relief, was what it was, being left alone. It meant that Klara's shirt came together quickly, faster than Joe had managed with any of the others. It meant that Joe barely noticed or cared, when February rolled around and David's family still hadn't left, because the shirt was nearly complete; all that was left was to sew it together. Joe laid the pieces on the bed, then pulled the rest of the shirts out of his haversack, lining them up in a row across the quilt. _Al, Jake, Gertie, Judy, Klara_. He stared down at them, twisting his lip between his fingers. _I'm coming. I love you_.   
He didn't really know how this next bit was going to go. Would he have to hunt them down one by one, sneak up on some huge fucking swan, wrestle it down and force the shirt over its neck? Were they even together, wherever the hell they were? Swans stuck together, right? If they remembered any part of themselves at all, they would have stayed together. But he would figure that out when he got there; Klara's shirt still had to be stitched.   
Someone knocked on the door, and Joe jerked, then scowled in annoyance. He'd been so caught up in his own head, he hadn't even heard them on the stairs. He turned around as David walked in, tipped his chin up in greeting and turned away again. To think he used to look forward to it, having David walk through the door and settle nearby. Now it just made him jittery, made that spot beneath his sternum ache. David came to stand beside him, looking down at the shirts.  
"You've almost finished another one," he said impassively. There was something bleak in his expression, similar to the way he looked after one of his restless nights. "What will you do when it's done?" He asked after a moment of thick silence. "Start on the sixth one?" He looked at Joe, searching his face. Joe shrugged, started putting the shirts away. Behind him, David took a deep breath in, let it back out in a noisy gust.  
"I came to remind you about dinner," he said. _Dinner?_ Joe threw a questioning glance over his shoulder at him, and David gave him an exasperated look. "The dinner that my mother's hosting. I told you about it a week ago, Lieb. Dr. Redding and his wife and daughter are coming? John's friend Arnold will be there, too." _Oh, yeah_. He picked up the last shirt, considering whether or not he should get started now on the sewing. But David was hovering over his shoulder, waiting on him for something. Fuck it, he'd do it later. Joe tossed it in the bag and closed the straps, turning around to shoot David a look. _There a point to this?_ "It's today," David said through stiff lips. "They'll be here in an hour."  
Good to know. Not like he had any plans to go wandering around downstairs anyway, but now he definitely wouldn't be going anywhere near there. He didn't want to see that asshole Redding again. Joe nodded as he got comfortable on the bed, propping his head back against the haversack and flexing his stiff fingers as he stretched. Swear to God, when this was all over he was going to sleep for a fucking week. David was still standing at the foot of the bed, glaring at him.  
"Lieb, you realize that you're a part of this soiree, don't you?" _What?_ Joe stared at him, threw his hand up. _Why the hell would I go?_ David's lip curled, a shadow of his usual slow smile. "Why do you think they invited Dr. Redding in the first place? My father wants his professional opinion of you." He smirked down at Joe's feet, his voice dripping with cynicism. "It's facile. The man's in general practice. I think father expected to find some raving lunatic living in his attic; he doesn't know what to to do now that you aren't playing the part correctly."  
_I'm not fucking doing that_. Joe made a sharply negating motion with his hand, and David's jaw clenched in response.  
"Don't be childish," he said petulantly. _Me? Is that a joke?_ David stared at him for a moment, then turned away, pacing across the room. Six steps to the window, six to the door. He came back to the bed, standing over Joe.  
"You were right, you know," he said abruptly. "About them. About how I haven't made the effort that I should. I've been talking to my father, actually talking, if you can believe it. I told him that I wasn't interested in returning to Harvard, or New York. I told him-" he paused, his gaze jumping over the room and Joe. "I told him I was thinking about staying here. I might try to get a job with the paper, or," he shrugged, grinned helplessly, "I don't know, maybe I'll take up commercial fishing."   
_Yeah? How'd he take that?_ Joe motioned to him to go on, scooting to make room on the bed when David sat down on the side of it.   
"He's not pleased, but he did say that he would be willing to hold on to the house for a few months longer, to give me time to find employment and a place to live. But the question is." He stopped, his lips moving soundlessly, his eyes settling purposefully on Joe. "The question is, what would you like to do?" Joe gave him what he hoped was a blank look, a black, gnawing feeling starting up in his stomach. "What do you want to come next for yourself?" David asked, something reckless in his voice. "Aside from the shirts. We don't have to stay here, if you would rather be someplace else. We could go to New York. We could go anywhere." _We?_ Joe stared up at him, gesturing between them. _What do you mean, we?_ "Don't do that," David bit out, his eyes flaring with anger. "I know you understand what I'm trying to say."  
Jesus, he was serious. Joe reached behind his head, fiddling with the strap of the haversack, fuck, he needed something in his hands, something else to look at besides David. _You're hot and cold, you know that?_ The guy had been avoiding him for more than a month, and now he wanted to drop this shit on him? But the idea still rose thick in his throat, murky and indistinct, the brimming beginnings of some wild story. The two of them, together someplace that they had chosen for themselves, like anybody got a choice. Growing into each other until they were lined by it, worn and comfortable, something like the way Joe's mother and father had been. Joe had watched them conduct entire conversations with a glance and a touch, a secret language that had always been just between them. Back then it had been a given, something he took for granted. Nowadays he had a better idea of how goddamn rare something like that was. He wondered for the first time if the doors had played a part in bringing his parents together, the way they had with him and David. He would have to ask his old man, once the curse was broken and they were together again. Joe looked back at David, lifting his hands towards his mouth to mime eating, then pointing back and forth between them. _Don't see what some dumb dinner has to do with you and me_.  
"How?" David drawled, in that bored tone he got when he was frustrated and trying to hide it. "You won't shut up about how I need to keep trying with them, but you can't see that it might be important to me that they know you?" _Right_. Joe could feel his lip curling up in a sneer. _And once I win them over, I can go ahead and ask your old man for his blessing before I pop the fucking question_. What the hell were they even talking about, what the fuck was going on? Jesus, David didn't even know his name. He didn't know one real thing about him. All they had was this weird way of talking to each other.  
_Don't act like that's nothing_.   
Swear to God, sometimes it seemed like it couldn't come from him, that insistent little voice. It was his oma maybe, or the ghost of his mother. Because if it was coming from him, then what? Then he would have to admit to himself that he knew exactly what it was worth, this thing that he and David had. And if he admitted that, then he really didn't know what came next. Joe scraped a hand through his hair, avoiding David's eyes. Wasn't the future uncertain enough? He couldn't begin to work out where David might begin to fit into it, when the curse was lifted and Joe had his family back. It could go all kinds of ways, more ways than he could imagine. He ran his thumb along the scar on his neck, his gaze sliding back reluctantly. He had seen and been subjected to a lot of crazy shit over the past five years, and David was maybe the most unbelievable of it all. He watched David's expression change, stiff annoyance dissolving into the wary beginnings of a smile.  
"They already like you more than they expected to. Well, Anne hates you, but she hates everyone these days. Last night, my mother called you 'stalwart'."  
_Stalwart, huh?_ Joe grinned, could feel it stretching and growing across his face, bizarrely giddy under David's gaze and voice. _I knew she liked me_. David grinned back, fucking glowing with it.  
_He only wants a story. That's all this is to him._  
 _Like you haven't fed off them for the past five years._ A story didn't have to be a lie. A story could be the most honest thing a person had.   
Well, fuck. Joe sat up, shoving David out of the way and swinging his legs off the bed. If he was going to make a serious play for the guy, if he was going to stop trying to convince himself that David wasn't anything more than a convenient port in the storm, then proving to David's family that he wasn't some psychopathic weaver was suddenly a hell of a lot more important than it had been just a moment ago.  
"Where are you going?" David asked, when Joe stood up and shouldered his haversack. Joe grabbed him by the collar of his shirt in answer, hauled him, blinking and gaping, out of the room and down the stairs.   
"Does this mean you've decided to stop being difficult?" He said, sounding far too pleased with himself as he followed Joe down the hall and into the bathroom. Joe threw him a disdainful glare and gestured to the door. _Shut up and close that_. He turned away, rifling through the cabinet until he turned up David's pomade. He would have trimmed his hair up if he'd had more time to prepare, but as it was he would have to make due with slicking it back off his face. He needed any edge he could get if he was going to try to get in on David's family's good side, if such a thing existed. He ignored David when he came to stand at his shoulder, watching Joe in the mirror with a perplexed smile, a warm weighted gaze.   
"You know, I've gotten attached to your half-wild look." He gestured vaguely towards Joe. "But I have to say, this suits you equally well." _Is that right?_ Joe smirked, running his fingers through his hair one last time before turning around to face David, giving him a cursory once over. He looked good, fuck, he always looked good, but he could use some work. Joe reached up, dragged the palm of his hand along the thick stubble on David's jaw, coarsely prickling against his skin, a shaky sort of heat starting up low in his stomach in response to the way David held himself still and stared at him. He tapped his fingers down one by one against the side of his face. _When did you last shave?_  
"Uh. Three, four days?" _Jesus, David, have a little self-respect_. Joe shoved him lightly, pointing towards the tub. David gave him a dubious look, his hand moving hesitantly along the portion of his jaw where Joe's fingers had just been, then lowered himself slowly down to the lip of the tub.   
It took a minute to get the soap ready, and David watched him the whole time, sharply suspicious, too quiet and intent. Why wasn't he droning on about something, or asking Joe a million obnoxious questions? It made him nervous, and he covered it up by scowling at David, kicking his leg to get him to turn around, grabbing him more roughly than he meant to when he tilted his head back, and David punished him for it by making a softly breathless sound of surprise and letting his eyes flutter shut. _Jesus Christ, you're killing me_. Joe bit down hard on his own lip and got to work.   
It wasn't like he hadn't appreciated a good looking guy when one happened to sit down in his chair, but Joe didn't mix business with pleasure, and it had never been a problem for him before, putting that sort of thinking to the side and focusing on doing his job. But David made it fucking impossible. It was the way he became immediately quiescent as soon as Joe touched him, loosely willing under his hands, letting Joe turn his head however he wanted. His mouth was slightly parted, and his skin felt too warm, and it was annoying, the way he was keeping his eyes firmly closed, but it was even worse when he opened them and looked up at Joe. _God, don't look at me like that_. Joe tipped his head to the side with two fingers against the back of his jaw, and David closed his eyes again.  
There was something about David that made Joe want to grip and yank, but there was also something about holding a razor in his hand that made him remember the way he had used to be, before the witch had pulled his world out by the roots. Back then, it had been about a firm touch, assurance in every motion. A guy wanted to know that he was in good hands before he bared his throat to a freshly stropped blade, and Joe had learned the trick of it early on, the pressure of fingers against a nearby spot, to help with the shave and let them know it was coming, the brusque tap afterwards to let them know they were good. It was no wonder the razor hadn't done Graf any harm, when Joe had tried to stab her with it. His old man had taught him too well; a straight blade wasn't a weapon, not in Joe's hands. It was his father's pervasive gentleness. It was the glow of warm lights over the mirrors, conversation no less interesting or meaningful for all that it was transactional. Turn something like that into a weapon, and everything that it symbolized would turn with it. Who would he be, if he lost that? Would he still be capable of touching David like this? Joe doubted it. He guided David in tilting his head further back, so that he could run the blade along the underside of his chin, his fingers stroking down David's throat to pull the skin taut. A few quick scrapes and he was done, his thumb coming up to rub along the dip in David's chin. He could let go of him now, step back and pat him on the shoulder to let him know he was done. But instead he twisted away only as much as he needed in order to drop the razor into the sink, then turned back to David. He hesitated a moment, then went ahead and did what he had been wanting to do, one hand curling around David's jaw, the other settling in his hair. It felt dangerous, touching him like this, no excuse or reason to blame it on other than the fact that he wanted to. Even worse to touch him gently, carefully, and why? Why was it so fucking terrifying? Hadn't David been telling him that he could, hadn't he said it in every way he possibly could? Joe just hadn't wanted to believe it.  
_Every day_ , he thought, watching his hand move slowly along the side of David's face. _I'll do this every day, until it's easy_. David's eyes opened; he stayed as he was, his head tilted back against Joe's hand.  
"You were a barber," he said quietly, and didn't say anything else. No story to soften the blow, no hint of a question in his voice. He might as well have his hand stuck straight in Joe's chest, it felt so painfully right. Like Joe had needed him to say it before it could be true, like David knowing was all it took for him to get it back. _Fuck, I'll tell you everything_. He thumbed David's lip, testing its fullness, sliding the tip of his finger just past the barrier of his mouth so that he could feel the wet heat of David's breath against his knuckle. _You won't believe a goddamn word of it_.   
"Lieb." His hands were on Joe's arms, pulling him down, and Joe was cupping his chin in one hand and the back of his head in the other, holding him in place, and then there wasn't anything separating them but the sparest breath of space. David's lips brushed against the corner of his mouth, and Joe shuddered and nearly moaned aloud, and God, David was so fucking warm and real-  
A loud rap on the door had him jumping back, letting go of David so quickly that he almost fell backwards onto the floor. "Fucking Christ!" He snapped, catching himself against the sink. "What is it?"  
"Your language is deplorable. What could you possibly be doing in there?" The door did little to muffle Anne's sharply cold tone.   
"Shaving," David said instantly, standing up and grabbing the razor like that would somehow prove to his sister on the other side of the door that he wasn't lying through his teeth. What an unbelievable idiot.  
"Have you forgotten how it works? You've been in there for ages."  
"Use one of the other bathrooms." He wasn't looking at Joe, was glaring fixedly at himself in the mirror.  
"Just get out, Kenyon!" The hard slap of her hand against the door, followed by the sound of her stalking away.  
"She'll be back," David said caustically. "We have a minute at best before she returns with a bobby pin to try and pick the lock."   
_Better move, then_. Joe put a hand on his side and shoved him towards the door, and David finally looked at him again, his eyes guarded. _What, babe, you gonna get shy now?_ He smirked at him, and David answered with a tight smile, then opened the door and poked his head out cautiously before motioning to Joe to follow him.   
In the hallway, Joe stopped by the attic door, pointing towards it and lifting the fabric of his shirt along his shoulder. _I'm gonna go get changed_. "Alright," David said, shifting his weight back and forth like he didn't know whether or not he should follow him up. Joe waited, and David seemed to arrive at a decision, his mouth tensing as he leaned towards Joe. "Listen. We don't have enough time at the moment, but there's something else that I need to talk to you about." He touched the back of Joe's hand, rough calluses against pocked scars. "Can I come up after dinner?"  
_You even need to ask?_ Joe nodded, turning his hand to grab David by his wrist. David looked down, startled, then blinked stupidly up at Joe, an uneven smile starting up and faltering away on his face.   
"Good," he said. He pulled his wrist loose, but only enough to grab Joe's hand and squeeze it tight with his own.


	14. Chapter 14

David's mother had pulled out all the stops. Joe walked downstairs to the drifting sound of music, the wooden floors gleaming with fresh polish. He followed the soft notes into the front room, hunting around until he found the Victrola, so cleverly disguised as an end table that Joe hadn't even realized what it was. He circled it, trying to work it out without touching it, then gave up and just enjoyed the music.  
"You're punctual at least." He turned around as David's father entered the room. "More than I can say for my own children." He came and stood beside Joe; he was taller than David, and substantial with his good looks and his presumptive confidence, naturally assuming control of the space around him. "Well designed, isn't it? Top of the line when I purchased it nearly twenty years ago, and the sound is still excellent. Of course, it can't compare to what's being produced these days. Shall I keep it, or replace is with a newer model?" He looked at Joe expectantly.  
_Do whatever you want_. Joe rubbed the side of his nose, then gestured down towards the exposed interior, the slim selection of records tucked away inside. He shrugged his shoulder at David's father, lifting a hand to indicate the room, the house.   
"I hardly use it, so why waste my money?" The man was incisive, maybe that was where David got it from. Joe nodded. "It's simple. I don't own it for the pleasure of listening to music. It's a tool, a demonstration, the same as any other material object we choose to put on display. Sentimentality will only slow you down." No, David wasn't anything like his father, David had heart and heat behind the careful machinations of his thoughts. But it was a test, Joe knew, to see how he would respond. He stared flatly back, refusing to show a reaction either way. Mr. Webster nodded curtly, as if displeased but unsurprised, then motioned over his shoulder. "Have a drink," he said, more a command than an invitation, and walked back out of the room.  
_Sure, why the hell not?_ Joe rolled his eyes at his retreating backside, then crossed the room to inspect the liquor on offer. Nothing was labelled; how the hell was he supposed to decide what to go for? He opened the decanters one at a time, sniffing cautiously at the lip of the bottles. One clear liquid gave off a smell similar to the cherry brandy his oma had enjoyed a little too much, so Joe poured himself a glass and took a testing sip. It wasn't as sweet, but it was close enough. He turned around and came face to face with David.  
"Pour another for me," he said, smiling uncertainly at him. "I'm going to need one to make it through tonight." Joe wanted to tell him that he was being dramatic, but he was starting to get the same feeling, so he knocked their shoulders together in answer and pulled out a second glass.  
"Why didn't we think to light a fire?" David asked, taking the drink from Joe and gesturing towards the cheerfully crackling hearth. Joe snorted and moved to stand closer to the flames, David following after. "I'm amazed it's still in working condition, to be honest. I don't know that it's ever been lit, at least not since we've owned the house. Mother has hosted similar affairs here, but those were during the summer. The doors and windows were all thrown open, and people tended to congregate outside more often than indoors."  
"And you and I would hide in the trees and play Cowboys and Indians." John walked into the room, trailed by a tow-headed, lankily handsome man.  
"I preferred Cops and Robbers," David said, then slid a grimacing smile towards Joe. "Moral ambiguity had a tendency to give me a stomachache."  
"But now you enjoy it," John said, grinning at David, hard and somehow challenging.  
"What?" David asked, startled.  
"The morally questionable. Here, you remember Arnold, don't you?"  
"Yes," David said, after a pause. His mouth was pulled down in a puzzled frown. Joe watched him shrug the moment off and smile impassively at John's friend. "How have you been?"  
"Very well," Arnold answered. His lips were pressed flat like he was trying to hide his amusement at something.  
"So, what do you know about her, Ken? Is she worth the hours of small talk we're about to be subjected to?  
"Who?"   
"Redding's daughter," John said, as if it should have been obvious. "Arnold here doesn't know her."  
"I haven't met her before," David said. "Unless she happened to be at one of the summer parties, but if so, I don't recall speaking to her. Beth, isn't it?"  
"There, you remember something," John said with an extravagant leer.  
"As if mother's talked about anything other than this dinner for the past week," David replied dryly.  
"Well, perhaps you'll find her more memorable after tonight. She's half the reason the Reddings were invited, you know." John was watching them closely as he spoke. "They're trying to round up proper companionship for you, in the event that you decide to stay here."  
"Companionship?" David repeated, mystified. He looked over at Joe, then back at John, his face slowly clouding. "If they think-"  
_Jesus, keep it together_. Joe stomped down on his foot as subtly as he could, which was to say, not very subtly at all; John and Arnold both zeroed in on the motion.  
"Say, are you drinking kirschwasser?" Arnold asked abruptly. "I can smell it from here." He put a hand on John's shoulder. "Let's have a glass."  
"Yes, let's," John said. They stepped past Joe and David without another word. David stared after them, then glanced over at Joe, motioning towards the door with his head.  
"Didn't I tell you?" He muttered under his breath as they left the room. "He never fails to somehow draw the most spectacularly appalling people into his orbit." Joe threw him a scathing look, pressing his fingers against his mouth and then throwing his hand out. _Don't go blaming what's-his-fuck. He wasn't the one saying all that shit_. David shook his head. "He's easily influenced, that's all," he insisted. "I'm telling you, his friend is an utter bastard."  
Well, he sure didn't seem like any kind of prize. David had complained about him to Joe before, the steamboat mechanic that John had befriended his first night on the island. David had been approving at first, pleased that his brother was spending time with someone other than, as he put it, "the inane, dissolute ciphers he usually surrounds himself with." That had spawned an hour long rant that Joe had been forced to sit through, weaving and watching David pace across his room while he recounted the most memorable of John's insufferable acquaintances. But David's good opinion of Arnold hadn't lasted long.  
"It's uncanny, really," he had said, tossing himself into Joe's chair with a dramatic groan. He had just gotten back after being gone half the day, John having convinced him to come into town to meet Arnold. "If there's a low-minded, shallow slug of a human being within a hundred mile radius of John, he'll have them dug out in a flash. God, what does he see in these people?"  
_Can't have been that bad_. Joe didn't look at him, didn't take his eyes off his work, but David still leaned adamantly forward.  
"You know, he barely spoke. Just made mocking remarks at unexpected moments, belittling everything that we both said. They weren't even clever, just coarse, and John was eating it up." He sagged back in his seat, frowning at the wall. "How can two people talk to the same person and come to such vastly different conclusions?"   
_What do you mean?_ David's lips tightened and he shook his head in answer to the questioning look Joe threw him.  
"I just don't understand how John doesn't see it," he muttered. "Some people don't have anything in them but apathy. They're the most dangerous sort of people there are." He sighed and scrubbed a hand along his face. "And John has always been far too willing to drop his misgivings in exchange for cheap entertainment."  
Joe set the loom on the bed and turned to face David, all large movements so that David would notice and look over at him. He pointed at David, then curled his hand and gestured at his own head, holding his gaze. _Don't worry so much_. He didn't have much to give in the way of advice on troublesome brothers; Jake had never caused him so much as a headache, had been almost too well-behaved in Joe's opinion. But he knew enough about younger siblings in general to know that there was no point in trying to convince them of anything; they would arrive at that shit in their own good time and trying to speed it along was a sure way to piss yourself off.  
"He's twenty-two years old, Lieb," David said shortly. "He should think for himself." His jaw tensed and he stood up, heading towards the door. "Fuck, I sound like my father."  
David was right about his brother though; John seemed different somehow, or maybe Joe simply hadn't read him as well as he thought he had when they first met. He had seemed friendly enough that first week, trailing after David whenever he came upstairs to see Joe, plunking himself down on the floor and filling the room up with the sound of conversation. He and David didn't bicker so much as exchange quips, and Joe had enjoyed listening to them bounce observations off each other, the casual familiarity that marked them as brothers more than their physical similarities ever could, the link of shared memory that Joe was missing so damn much. Then John started hanging around Arnold, and David groused but Joe had brushed him off, dismissing his complaints as something similar to the way Joe had often felt about some of his sister's more empty-headed friends. But maybe David had been on to something.  
Old habits had them meandering their way down the hall and into the small room off the kitchen, abandoned by them both now that David's family was here and Joe didn't wander around the house anymore. It was embarrassing to admit, but Joe missed it, coming downstairs in the morning to find David waiting for him at the table with a cigarette at the ready, smiling and disarmingly mussed. They didn't so much as glance at each other, just circled the table until they were hovering over their customary seats, standing instead of sitting, coffee mugs exchanged for brandy glasses. For a moment it was all too weirdly dissonant for Joe, the motions that they went through without conscious thought, the jarring details that didn't belong. David should still be heavy-lidded with sleep, or rheumy-eyed with the lack thereof; Joe should be running his tongue along his gums to dislodge that tackily thick sensation that he always woke up with. David shouldn't be so neatly constrained in a collared shirt and tie, and Joe definitely shouldn't be remembering the barely-there skim of David's mouth against his. Fuck, and now David had caught him staring and was getting that heated look in his eyes, the one he usually tried to stifle. It packed a hell of a punch when he let it loose.  
"God." There was a hunger in David's voice that vibrated with the same tight thrumming as Joe's chest. But there was something else there too, an urgency that went beyond need. "I've got to talk to you alone."  
_We are alone, idiot_. Joe gulped his drink, a line of heat running from his mouth down to the pit of his stomach. He gestured with his empty glass. _Just tell me already_. David shifted uncomfortably. "Not right now. Later, when we don't need to worry about being interrupted." The sound of approaching footsteps from the hallway had him pulling a wry face. "See? It's easier to slip past enemy lines than it is to escape my mother at one of these events."  
"Kenyon?" Mrs. Webster appeared in the doorway. "Here you are. Good evening, Lieb." Joe nodded to her, and she turned her attention back to David. "Dr. Redding is here with his wife and daughter. Go greet him, won't you?"  
"Yes, alright," David sighed. He moved around the table, tilting his head questioningly at Joe. _Yeah, yeah, I'm coming_. Might as well get it over with. He slouched out of the room after David.  
Dr. Redding was standing in the foyer with his family, handing their coats off to a frigidly expressionless Anne. He was talking to David's father, but he stopped when Joe and David came into view, turning to look them over appraisingly.   
"Well," he said, "the both of you are looking much better than when we last saw each other."  
"Is that so?" Mr. Webster asked curiously. "How is it that my son looked?"  
"A little water-logged, and more than a little aggravated on the behalf of his friend," Redding answered. He focused in on Joe. "How has your neck healed, Mr. Lieb?" _Christ's sake, quit calling me that._  
"Very cleanly," David replied for him.   
"I'll take a look at it. Kenyon, this is Lucille, my wife, and our daughter Elizabeth."  
"Just Beth, please," his daughter said with a breathless little laugh, smiling back and forth between David and his sister. Anne barely paused to spare her a brief, cutting glance before walking away with the coats, and Beth gave David a bewildered look.   
"Pleased to meet you," David said, caught between a smile and a wince as he shook their hands.  
"Come with me, Mr. Lieb, we'll leave them to it while I examine your neck." David caught his eye, nodding almost imperceptibly, and Joe gave him a half-hearted sneer before following Redding into the side room, closed up and unused due to the cold and the fact that it was made up of nothing but windows. Redding turned to face him, lifting his hands to show Joe his open palms. "No needles or medication this time."  
_Is that supposed to be funny?_ Joe scowled at him and turned his head to the side. Redding checked his throat perfunctorily, then took a step back.  
"I understand you have yet to speak." He took Joe's hands peremptorily, turning them over to inspect both sides and then letting them go. "Your hands don't seem to have suffered any more damage." They had, but a few more scars weren't really noticeable among all the rest, and Joe sure as hell wasn't going to point them out. "Tell me, Mr. Lieb, have you been comfortable here?" _David. You're doing this for David_. Joe looked him in the eye as he nodded. "I notice that you're carrying your pack. Can you explain why you feel the need to keep it on your person?" He shrugged, resisting the urge to reach up and hold on to the haversack by the straps. Redding stared at him thoughtfully for a long moment, then nodded and gestured towards the door. "That's enough of that, don't you agree? Let's return to the others." _What, you're serious?_ Joe didn't bother to hide the distrust on his face. _Just like that?_ Redding smiled faintly at him. "I meant what I said earlier. You seem much improved from when I saw you last. Do you have intentions to commit violence against yourself?" Joe shook his head no. "Do you feel willing and capable of communicating with the people around you?" He hesitated, then nodded. "Then I'm satisfied. Come see me if and when you feel prepared to address your mutism. I can recommend you to an excellent psychotherapist." _So I'm still nuts, just not certifiable_. But it was a better outcome than Joe had expected. He would almost go so far as to call the guy decent, if it weren't for the whole drugging him and trying to get him committed to an asylum incident. Joe thought momentarily about shaking Redding's hand, had just decided against it and turned towards the door to make his escape, when it opened and David's mother poked her head in.   
"Oh, Paul," she said sympathetically. "You haven't even had a drink, and now we're sitting down to dinner."  
"Don't concern yourself," Redding said briskly, moving towards the door. "I hardly partake outside of the occasional glass of wine."  
"Is that so? David has just opened a bottle of Rioja that you might enjoy." Her eyes cut to Joe, she smiled, the faintest flicker of something warm. "Come along, the both of you."  
Joe had been staying with David for close to six months, and he had yet to see anyone make use of the dining room. It was just a space he had to walk through on his way to the kitchen, dim and emptily oversized, like so much of the rest of the house. It was bizarre, walking in to the sound of voices, the table set with gleaming white plates and freshly polished silverware. The fireplace was lit in here too, throwing flickering, refractory points of light across the glasses. David's father was standing at the head of the table, regaling the room with some kind of story. David, two chairs down, was smiling apologetically across the table at Redding's daughter. He glanced over at Joe as he walked in, a too brief, too concerned look, then turned his attention back to Beth. The chairs on either side of his father were empty, and Mrs. Webster and Redding went straight for them, which left Joe at the other end of the table with Anne, John, and his friend Arnold. Which was just beautiful. He forced his features to flat disinterest and sat down, settling his haversack securely between his feet.  
All these people gathered together, and none of them gave a fuck about Joe, except for David. The last time that Joe had sat down to a big meal like this, it had been with his own family, shortly before he left for Toccoa. The air had been heavy with disquiet, what with ma being sick, and Joe's imminent departure, and Adele Graf sitting at the end of the table watching them the way a hawk surveyed her hunting field, but they had managed to make each other laugh, to pull those ties between them fast and tight. Jesus, that was the last time they had all been together, now that he thought of it, and even that memory was cut and laced with the looming presence of the witch.   
"Why so serious?" Joe looked over at John; he was cutting his chicken away from the bone with a knife and fork, watching Joe out the side of his eye. "Doesn't he look serious, Arnold?"  
"Practically glum," Arnold said in agreement.  
What was with these guys? Joe ignored Arnold, leaning his forearms on the table and turning in his seat to stare hard at John. _What the fuck are you dancing around?_ He could only let shit slide so far; he had never been one of those people capable of turning the other cheek, no matter how many times his old man entreated him to kindness. And it was far from the first time some jackass had thought to get their kicks in by talking around the speechless freak in the room, and it always left Joe boiling with fury. He usually managed to keep himself from violence by reciting the names of his sisters and brother and reminding himself that the last thing he needed was to draw attention. But this felt different somehow, more intently targeted. John crumpled some under his glare, glancing towards his buddy as if for support or inspiration, then back at Joe, a cruel curl to his lips.   
"Is it Ken?" He asked with false sympathy, his voice dropping. He gestured down the table with his knife. "You're concerned there won't be a place for you, once mother and father have him ringed in with what fairer company they can drum up for him here. He and Beth do seem to be getting on rather well, don't they?"  
"Like a house on fire," Arnold said.   
"John, your minion is boring us all," Anne said from Joe's other side. She gave Arnold a look of pure ice, more cold and perfectly unfeeling than anything David could summon up. "Do you actually enjoy parroting my brother's idiocy?"  
"Be quiet, Anne," John said with sudden, snapping heat, his tone still pitched low. "What the hell do you care?"  
"I don't. At least Kenyon doesn't feel the need to surround himself with sycophants." She turned away, directing her attention towards the other end of the table, abruptly dismissive. John scoffed, looking back at Joe.  
"She's lying. The truth is, she simply can't stand how every conversation comes back to Ken." He took a bite of chicken, a gulp of his brandy. "It's the same old story. The prized first son, the second son a mere insurance policy. Anne, meanwhile, hardly warrants a footnote. She was an accident."   
Jesus, he didn't have the headspace to deal with this. Joe had expected to suffer through awkward dinner conversation, but nothing quite at this level. He focused his efforts on keeping his expression closed up while John talked on.  
"It's always been about Ken." He was staring down the table at David, but Joe refused to turn his head and look. "You should have seen how mother carried on when he enlisted, weeping over him and praising his selflessness to her friends in turns. And father grumbled, but do you know how many times I've had to sit through some oration about how I should be more decisive, take a stand for something like Ken did?" He shook his head, looked down at his plate. The way he was talking, Joe would have expected him to sound different, bitter maybe, or at least resentful. But he only sounded thoughtful. Then he glanced over at Arnold, and something in his face shifted. "Sometimes I like to imagine how they would react, if I were to tell them that the source of all their pride and hope is a queer."  
Cold washed over Joe, a cold more starkly felt than any black winter night he had spent alone and brittle with silence. A cold unforgiving enough to crack trees and stop a beating heart. His neck and shoulders went tight, nearly shaking as he forced himself not to move, not to glance around the table and check to see if anyone had heard John. There was no sudden, shocked hush, no pause in the sound of silverware scraping against plates. Mr. Webster was saying something about real estate in New York. David was sharing his thoughts on the Soviets, which Joe had already listened to one time too many. No one had heard anything. Joe leaned forward across his plate, angling his head towards John in an attempt to hide his face from the rest of the table. _Shut your goddamn mouth right now, or I'll do it for you_.   
"At last, a reaction," John said, not appearing cowed in the slightest. Instead he dipped his head in close and dropped his voice even lower. "Is that why he's kept you around all these months? The two of you came to an arrangement of some sort, is that it?" _Shut the fuck up_. What was this, what the hell was John getting out of this? "A place to stay and all the food you can eat, and in exchange all you have to do is bend over for my brother. Or is it the other way around?" His eyes slid past Joe, moving further down the table, and this time Joe couldn't help himself, he turned his head and looked at David, grinning and smugly amused about something as he talked with Mrs. Redding and her daughter. He had relaxed over the course of the dinner, lost that stiff nervousness that he'd had earlier in the evening. He looked like he was enjoying himself. "Tell us, Lieb," John drawled in Joe's ear, scarcely louder than a whisper. "Have you been fucking my brother?" David turned his head, his eyes catching and holding when he saw that Joe was looking at him. Joe watched his face change, a line of concern crinkling the space between his eyebrows, his smile faltering and falling in. He had a whole world still open and waiting for him; Joe wasn't going to sit here and let a handful of words rip all that away. "Do you think anyone else suspects how you've whored yourself out to him for room and board?" _Fuck, David_ , Joe thought, looking away. What was it, what name could he put to this hot, coalescing feeling in his chest? Fear, fury, love; it all amounted to same thing at the end of the day. _I'm sorry_. He launched himself across the edge of the table, his fist connecting with John's open mouth, stopping his voice.


	15. Chapter 15

It was by no means the first time in Joe's life that he had thrown himself across a table to clock a guy, but it was definitely the first time that the other guy hadn't known on some level that it was coming. John only had a split second, between the moment Joe committed himself to the blow and the moment when it landed, to begin to realize what was about to happen, and then Joe was on him.  
Glass shattered, Joe's chair toppled to the ground. Joe thought he maybe heard the beginnings of a shriek, but he didn't have much attention to give to what else might be going on around him, not when all that mattered was shutting David's dumb shit of a brother up.   
He'd thrown his first punch from an awkward angle, so it didn't serve much use except to stun John into silence for a moment at best. But now Joe was half standing over him, half in his lap, his teeth clamped together to prevent himself from making a sound, now he had a firm grip on his jaw. He squeezed, pulled John's head forward and back with a jerking motion, slamming it against the back of the chair. John made a wordlessly distressed sound and flailed his arms. He was still holding his dinner knife, and he made a weak attempt to strike out with it. Joe grabbed him by the wrist and pounded his arm against the side of the chair to get him to drop it, but John clung stubbornly on, so Joe punched the side of his head, a sharp hard blow. John's fingers loosened as he slumped in his seat, the knife slipping from his fingers.   
Joe kept his grip on his jaw as he hauled him upright, and now he could definitely hear people screaming and shouting somewhere behind him, so he figured he only had a moment more to get his point across. He hit John again, following him to the ground when he fell, limbs akimbo. He sat on his chest and grabbed him by his throat, leaning his face in close to glare straight into his eyes. _You talk and I'll fucking kill you_. He could feel his lips peeling back from his teeth. John tried to garble something, and Joe tightened his grip on his neck, and then two arms were around his chest and waist and he was being jerked back and up, off of John.  
"Fucking Christ, Lieb," David said, nearly strangled with shock, "What the hell are you doing?" There was a cacophony of voices behind them, someone shouting to call the police, someone else yelling for calm. John groaned at their feet, rolling over to his side. "What happened?" David said near Joe's ear, still holding him tightly restrained against his chest. "Did he say something?" _No, and he won't ever if he knows what's good for him_. Joe leaned back against David, using him as leverage to get off one last blow, his boot connecting with John's back, and yeah, okay, that one wasn't for any other reason except because he wanted to. "Lieb!" Now David was hauling him backwards, further away from his brother. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Then Redding was there, throwing one appalled look at Joe before turning his attention to John, Arnold standing like a statue in the background. Some friend he had turned out to be, letting his buddy get pummeled like that. Joe snarled at him just for the hell of it, and Arnold, inexplicably, smiled.  
"God, my God, he tried to kill him," Redding's wife was saying, all aghast.   
"John!" David's mother dropped to her knees beside Redding, her hands shaking, her face white.  
"He's alright, Joan, give him some space," Redding said.  
"Should we call the police?" Redding's wife again.  
"No," David snapped. "Of course not, it was-" His arms tightened momentarily on Joe, more a warning than an attempt to hold him close. "It was just a misunderstanding."  
"Kenyon, how can you defend this -"   
"Quiet." He barely raised his voice, but it somehow cut through all the manic chatter like a sharp point. David's father strolled across the room, stood looming over John. "Don't fuss over him, Joan. He needs to learn how to take his licks like a man. John, stand up." John lay for a moment longer on the floor, then slowly climbed to his feet. Mr. Webster turned to Redding. "I apologize, Paul, but I think it would be best that you take Lucille and Elizabeth home. I'll sort this out." He looked similar to the way David did, when he was angry and trying to hide it, but on him it actually looked intimidating instead of just confusingly hot.   
"Of course," Redding said, after a beat of silence.  
"Anne, fetch their coats." Mr. Webster turned to John, swaying slightly where he stood and pressing a ginger hand to his mouth. "We'll speak later. Go clean yourself up."  
"David -" Mrs. Webster started to speak again, but her husband cut her off with a sharp gesture.  
"See the Reddings out," he said, turning on his heel to look for the first time at Joe and David. He stared at Joe as everyone filed from the room, his gaze hard. Joe shoved out of David's hold and glared back. David's father didn't move until the door closed with a soft click behind the last guest; then he closed in on them, stepping in so close that Joe had to tip his chin back to keep holding his eyes.   
David shifted closer, his foot bumping up against Joe's. "We -"  
"I want you out," his father said, still fixed on Joe. He looked at David. "Tonight."  
"This is absurd," David said, his voice edged with anger, the beginning of panic. "I don't know what John said-"  
"He deserved it, I'm sure," his father cut in, turning away and brusquely righting John's chair. "It's past time he learned when to curb his tongue. But I will not tolerate loutish displays in my house, and make no mistake Kenyon, this is my house."  
"As if I could possibly forget," David snapped. "Where would. Where would he go? It's below freezing."  
"This is not a stray mutt that you can wheedle me into allowing to stay, Kenyon." He looked at Joe, his lips pulled tight with disdain. "No matter how base his behavior."  
"You can't throw him out like this," David said, beautifully stubborn. "You pretend to find this situation so abhorrently vulgar, and then talk about throwing a man out in the cold in the middle of the night."  
"Pretend?" His father repeated, his voice rising angrily for the first time.  
"Oh, you're horrified, of course. Horrified he caused a scene, horrified he ruined dinner. You don't give a damn what John might have said to him, God, you hardly care what happened to John."  
"Kenyon, I will not -"  
"If you're hoping to hold the moral high ground, you have limited options in how you respond." Fuck, he was something else. Joe should probably be having a different response to this whole situation. The blood was still pounding in his ears, his heart thumping with adrenaline, and he had definitely screwed himself and his slim chances of winning David's family over, but in that moment all Joe could think was how stupidly perfect David was as he glared obdurately at his old man. Mr. Webster's expression was thunderous. He turned away with a wrenching motion, heading for the door.  
"I want him gone first thing in the morning," he said, and slammed the door behind him.   
David's breath left him in a rush as soon as they were alone; his hand flew out to grab on to Joe by his elbow. Joe wanted to jerk free; he was too jittery from their close call, John's words rattling around in his head, what the hell kind of guy could even think about stabbing his own brother in the back like that? It was messed up, and Joe didn't want to be touched. But this was David, using his grip on Joe's elbow to lift his arm, running roughly padded fingers along his knuckles. They were fine, just angrily red; they would probably be bruised in the morning.   
"Tell me what he was saying to you," David said, low and forceful, staring down at Joe's hand.   
_No way_. Or at least, not until he could actually fucking talk again, and probably not even then. He didn't want David to know. He pulled free of David's hold, grabbing him by his forearms and pushing them back against his chest. He stared at David, tried to say it the way that he had been these past months, with his eyes and his whole body. _You don't worry about it, got that? It's taken care of_. He waited until he saw David's eyes change with understanding, shaking his head angrily as he searched Joe's face; he let go and grabbed his haversack up off the ground, swinging it over his shoulder as he went to the door.  
"Lieb, for God's sake." Joe ignored him, and sure enough, by the time his feet hit the stairs he could hear David following after him, his footsteps clipped and quick on the floorboards.   
"You can't do that, not this time." They were on the attic stairs now, David not even waiting until they reached Joe's room to start back up. "He's my brother, Lieb. What happened?" Joe set the haversack on the bed and pulled out Klara's shirt, a needle and thread. He dropped down beside the bag, clamped his jaw and glared at his hand until the tremor left it, then got to work. "You can't be serious," David said, standing over him. "You're going to do that right now? Lieb, we need to talk about this." Joe ignored him, because what the hell else could he do? He had to see them again, grip them tight. He had to be able to look at David and open his mouth and tell him _shut up already_ and _quit trying to move your hair part it looks stupid_ and _your brother thinks I'm fucking you for a roof over my head, is he blind or something, I'd fuck you for free, I'd work every day for the rest of my life to come home at night and wear myself out fucking you_. He had to break this curse. David turned away, pacing the room.  
"They're how you hide, is that it?" He said suddenly, pivoting around to face Joe. "You won't tell the truth, you refuse to accept or ask for help, and you still don't trust me enough to just put that fucking useless scrap of fabric down and - " he broke off, then, "Lieb, please." Then he was kneeling in front of Joe, crowding into his space, one hand beside Joe's leg on the mattress, the other ghosting over his arm. "Stop, please. Look at me."   
_Just wait, just give me a couple more hours_. A couple hours and fuck only knows how long of hunting down five big white birds. Joe didn't look up. He shrugged David's hand off, kept his focus resolutely on the shirt. If David could see through him so easily, could read his hands and his expressions like words on a page, why couldn't he see this? Why couldn't he see that it was a battle, that he was part of the home that Joe was trying to fight his way back to? But the truth was all locked up in his throat. David shoved away, lurched to his feet. He was gone out the door faster than Joe had ever seen him move before.   
Joe let himself stop for a moment, let his shoulders drop and his hands bunch around the fabric. _Pop_ , he thought, staring down at the shirt. _Al, Jake, Gertie, Judy, Klara. David_. The silence loomed around him. He forced his hands loose from the shirt, scowled when he saw that he'd managed to bend the needle. He pushed his thumb carefully against the curve, testing to see if it would straighten or break, and then he heard the sound of feet coming back up the stairs. _Jesus, what now?_ He looked up as David came back through the door, holding a folded up newspaper page in his hand. He glared a challenge at Joe, his mouth set in a hard line, his eyes burning with anger. But there was something else behind it, something Joe couldn't put a name to. David walked up to him and dropped the paper in his lap.  
"There," he said, his voice a grim, barely restrained shake. "Maybe you'll have something to say about that."  
It was a picture of him. A picture of them, all of them. Al's wedding photo, Joe realized with a strangling pain, a knot of tangled, grabbing grief. She was standing beside Max, serious and steady-eyed as she stared into the camera. Max was beaming nervously beside her, the rest of the family arrayed around them. Joe was standing beside his brother; they were both smiling, Jake small and sincere, Joe forced. And Gertie, and Judy and Klara, fuck, they looked so young, still just kids. Sometimes he still thought of them like that, when he imagined talking to them again. God, they were so obnoxious, nothing but a headache. Longing was a punch in the gut, so overpowering he wanted to fold up under the force of it.  
"That's you," David said, somewhere far above him, no trace of a question in his voice. "Joseph Liebgott."  
_'Max and Alma Wagner, pictured with her family on the day of their marriage'_ , the caption below the photo said. Joe picked the newspaper up, fingers and eyes scrabbling to find the beginning of the article.  
It focused more on Al than it did the rest of them. A young woman vanishes under mysterious circumstances, along with her brother and three sisters, leaving behind her husband and two young children. Three days later at a military camp on the other side of the country, the eldest brother also disappears. It's strange and salacious enough to keep people talking, but with no bodies and no one kicking up a fuss aside from the abandoned husband, the authorities have little interest in an intensive investigation, although the case is still open. Joseph D. Liebgott, the eldest brother, is still wanted on charges of desertion.   
That was all it had to say about him, or Jake and the rest of his sisters. The story didn't even bother to give their names, like there wasn't any fucking point, like they were just side notes to the bigger story, the story of Alma Wagner, the unnatural wife and mother.   
_"Al would never leave like that,"_ Max was quoted to have said in the article. _"Anyone who really knows her would say the same."_ Despite his insistence on the fidelity of his wife, he had no ready answer when asked for his opinion on where she might be right now. Joe checked the name given in the byline, repeating it until he had it memorized. The guy didn't even know the beating that was coming for him, writing this pile of unfounded shit about his sister, his family. _Just hang in there, Max. Took me way longer than I thought it would, but I'm getting there_. There wasn't any mention in the article about Joe showing up at Max's house on the same day he disappeared in Georgia. Maybe Max never reported it, or maybe he had and no one believed him. The story cast Max in a pathetic sort of light, willingly blind to the reality of his wife's abandonment. It was infuriating, and so was the one brief mention that Joe's old man had gotten, a dismissive, _'sadly unsound since the passing of his wife and the disappearance of his children'_. The truth and the fairy-tale, all inverted. Stories, lies, lives, all spun out with the spindle. It was a goddamn travesty.  
"You were big news, my first week at Toccoa." David's voice jerked him back. He tucked the newspaper sheet under Klara's shirt, like he could hide it, like David hadn't already read the whole thing. There was a rattling feeling that was working it's way inwards along his limbs, a ragged shivering beneath his skin. It made it hard to absorb David's words and their implication. The article hadn't said what camp he had been at when he disappeared. "I arrived the same night you went AWOL. How's that for a coincidence?"   
_David, sweetheart. Coincidences don't exist_. Joe looked at him, every muscle in his body contracting to keep the rattle contained, a machine on the verge of clattering apart. "The guys who knew you didn't say much, but it was obvious they couldn't understand it. Sobel ranted about you for weeks." He huffed something that might have been a laugh. "We hated you. The new arrivals, I mean. Cursed you under our breaths every time we had to run up Currahee with Sobel running along beside us, asking us if it was too much, if we'd like to try and make a break for it like Liebgott did." His lips moved, a simulacrum of a smile, his eyes wandering Joe's face. "Grant told us one night not to believe it. He said you weren't the type, no way you would desert, that there had to be more going on that we didn't know. We didn't pay much attention to him, to be honest." He looked away, towards the door. "But then you were reading that letter from Pat, and you got this look on your face, like you'd read something that surprised you. And I told you about Chuck, and your face changed again, and it seemed like I had hurt you somehow. It made me think." He looked back at Joe. "So I wrote to Pat, asked him if the name 'Lieb' meant anything to him. He wrote back and said no, but it was funny that I should ask that, because the Liebgott family was a bit of a local legend where he lived in Oakland, and Joe Liebgott was a local legend within Easy. And then I remembered, and I thought-" he shook his head, his hands rising up in a helpless gesture, "-that there was no way in hell, that it wasn't possible. But you weren't going to tell me anything, so I looked into it. Wrote Pat again, wrote to Nixon-" _You wrote fucking Nix?_ "- He was an intelligence officer, and one of the few I trust enough to ask, what else was I supposed to do?" David snapped in answer to whatever he had seen in Joe's expression, then stopped, staring down at him. "You're not going to try and deny it, then."  
_What would be the point?_ Joe looked back down at his hands. It didn't feel the way he had thought it would, David knowing. Hadn't he wanted this, hadn't he been assuring himself only a few hours ago that he would tell the guy everything, just as soon as he broke the curse? And now David knew, and now the truth felt like a lie. _The truth is, I joined the paratroopers for the money and because somebody had to be there to keep idealistic idiots like you from getting their parts blown off. And because I liked the idea of killing Nazis. Instead I spent the war jumping around the country trying to outsmart a witch and sleeping in unused rooms and empty shacks and living off of evil thoughts_. He pulled the newspaper free from beneath the shirt, needing to see their faces. _The truth is, my sister Al is the second wisest person I know, next to my old man, and she's tough as nails to go with it. She could have done anything, worked as a stevedore or run a Yukon mail route with a team of dogs, and she gave all that to Max and her kids. That's the truth about my sister_. She stared back at him, collected and warm, the grainy quality of the photo couldn't do anything to cut the sureness of her gaze.   
"You don't need to worry about Nixon." David was still hovering above him. "He wrote back that I should send any information I might have to him, rather than directly to the Airborne." A moment of strained silence, then, "What happened to them?" Halting, careful. "Your family. They're what this is all about, aren't they? They're the reason you won't speak, the reason you spend all your time making these shirts. Are they." He cut himself off, but Joe knew what he had been about to ask. _Are they dead_. He could hit him, he could kill him for this, for making him do this. The rattle was in his chest now, burrowing deeper. David sighed. "Listen, I'm clearly ill-versed on the subject of family, but." He hesitated, then continued on in a lumbering rush. "But they wouldn't want you to live like this, Lieb."  
_Oh, fuck you_. Frustration bloomed, and Joe latched on to it, breathed furious bellows at its red heart until it roared, burning away that awful shake that had been trying to work its way in. He jumped to his feet and shoved David hard, two hands against his chest. David stumbled back, barely managing to catch himself, his mouth falling open. Joe didn't give him a chance to speak or move in close, Jesus, he didn't know what he would do if David tried to touch or talk to him again, punch his lights out, or worse, fucking collapse on him like he had the night they hid behind that tree, only this time he didn't think he would be able to suck it all back in, and if he let any of it out it wouldn't come silently. It would erupt with a howl. He grabbed David by the back of the neck and hauled him to the door. David barely struggled, sluggish in his surprise, as Joe shoved him through the doorway. He started to slam it closed, but David's hand shot out, catching the door by its edge. He glared at Joe, electric with anger.  
"Give me something, Lieb. One thing, one goddamn thing that I didn't have to drag out or dig for." Joe glared back, straining against David's arm where it was braced against the jamb. "You can't keep running." He leaned in, urgent. "I should know, I've tried. You'll never get away from it. Eventually you have to stop and turn around. Please, let's." His face didn't change, his jaw still tightly locked, words forced out from stiff lips. But something collapsed, somewhere in his eyes, the fight starting to drain out of him. "Let's stop."  
He had it all wrong, all twisted up with his assumptions and the bits of fact that he had managed to unearth. But Jesus, Joe wanted to stop too. He was tired of running. And David was solid, heavy with thoughts and heart, something warm to lean against. But Joe couldn't stop, and he didn't have time for this.   
He brought his hand down on David's elbow, hard and vicious enough to make David's arm fold in with a pained curse. David's grip on the door slackened, and Joe slammed it shut and turned the lock. Then just for good measure, and because he knew David would be able to hear it from the other side of the door, he dragged the armchair across the room and shoved it up beneath the knob.  
"Lieb!" David slammed his fist just once against the door, a single sharp crack of sound. His voice dropped, but didn't lose any of its taut fury. "Open the fucking door." Joe snatched the shirt and newspaper sheet up from where they had fallen to the floor, then tossed himself backwards into the chair. He stared down at his family and listened to the floorboards creak beneath David's feet. He could practically hear him fuming. "We're not done here," David finally bit out, and Joe leaned his head against the back of the chair and listened to him storm down the stairs.   
_Good_ , he thought, his heart a clenched fist.  
It had been a hell of a day, right up there with the time he had discovered his oma was a witch whose rivalry with her sister had gotten his family cursed, or the time he dumped his own ass into the ocean with a shark. He wanted to sleep; he wanted to enjoy a warm bed while he still could. But he was getting the boot in the morning, and he needed to finish Klara's shirt. So he curled up in the chair, the newspaper propped up against one arm so he could glance over at the photo now and then, and he didn't think about David or the shit show of a dinner that he had ended up ruining, or about what might come next for any of them. He thought about putting his stitches in a straight line, and he imagined Klara pulling a face and picking at the fabric and saying, _Five years and this is the best you could manage, Joe?_ and God, he couldn't wait to pull her in against his side again, and mess her hair up the way he used to when she was younger, until she would scowl and shout for him to let her go already. And then he was tying off the thread and dropping the needle to rub at his dry eyes, and when he glanced towards the window the sun was up, and the last shirt was done.  
It felt funny, packing everything away in his haversack, knowing that he wasn't coming back. Not for a while at least. Would David still be here by the time Joe had everything settled enough to come back? He should still be on the island at least, if he had been serious about staying. Joe would have to tell him somehow, that he was leaving, but he would be back, but he didn't know when. That David didn't need to stick around here if he didn't want to, that Joe would find him wherever. How the hell was he going to get him to understand that? Fuck, this wasn't going to be easy, saying goodbye, especially with the way he had managed to wreck their last night together. Joe ran an unsteady hand through his hair, then shouldered his haversack and made his way downstairs to find David.  
It was late morning; probably the only reason David's parents hadn't called the sheriff on him yet was because they were still in bed. The house was steeped in the kind of quiet that said everyone was gone or still asleep. Joe leaned against the frame of David's door, took a bracing breath, and gave a quick knock. He didn't wait for David to answer, just opened the door to step inside, stopping when he saw that the room was empty. David's bed was unmade, but that didn't mean anything, the guy never made his bed.  
"He left." Joe turned towards the voice; Arnold was standing behind him, in the doorway of the guest room. _Great, you're still here?_ "Early this morning. He didn't say where he was going." Beautiful. Now what, wait around until David got back or his old man threw him out, or leave without saying goodbye? Joe scowled at Arnold, because David wasn't there to scowl at and he didn't care much for the guy anyway. Arnold just smiled in response. "They all went out, actually. John thinks Kenyon's making a final attempt to cajole their parents into allowing you to stay." _Yeah, he can forget that_. The back of Joe's neck was beginning to crawl. He pointed at Arnold, then indicated the hallway with a circling motion of his finger, his brow lifting in a question. _So they left, and you stayed behind?_ The guy was up to something, Joe just didn't know what. Arnold's smile grew, the gleam of white teeth. "Well, they didn't all leave." His eyes shifted, looking at something over Joe's shoulder.   
_Oh, shit_. Joe turned, ducking instinctively, but not fast enough to completely evade the blow from behind. He took it on his shoulder and fuck it hurt, pain shooting down his arm and across his back and chest, so bad that it was really some kind of goddamn miracle that he managed to stay quiet. John raised his arm to hit him again, because of course it was John who was trying to brain him. He was holding something in his hand, and he was standing half in front of David's door, and Arnold was behind him standing in front of the next nearest exit, and Joe was trapped. Joe barely thought, just threw himself instinctually forward. If he could force his way past John, if he could escape through David's door -  
He crashed into him with enough force to have them both falling against the side of the door, but John managed to keep his feet. He got off an awkward hit with his free hand, a glancing blow to Joe's jaw that had his teeth clacking together, and Joe scrabbled to get free, to get a hand on the doorknob.  
"Don't let him through the door," Arnold said sharply behind him, and everything clicked into place. _You, you bitch, you evil, conniving_ \- John was trying to grapple him to the ground, Joe threw an elbow back and caught him in the neck - _what did you do to him, what did you do to his brother_ \- John grabbed on to the haversack and yanked, pulling Joe further away from the door - _I'll kill you, I'll kill you_ \- He threw his head back into John's face, and John cursed but didn't let go. His hand came down on the spot on Joe's shoulder where he had first hit him, and he squeezed, and Joe half-collapsed against the bolting pain that radiated out from the spot.   
"Help me," John snapped, as he forced Joe down to the ground. A pained sound tried to work its way free of Joe's throat. _Ignore it, just move, just get to the fucking door_. It was right there, scarcely a foot away, and he tried to throw himself towards it, but John was holding him down bodily now, one hand still squeezing relentlessly on his shoulder, the other holding his haversack to the side so that he could plant a knee into his back.  
"I told you I won't touch him," Graf-as-Arnold replied. "You're doing well, John."  
"Hold still, you fucking-" John hissed at Joe, then, to Arnold, "What should I do?"  
"I suggest you hit him again," Arnold answered coolly. _No, don't do it, Jesus fucking Christ_ \- Joe twisted his neck, trying to see, trying to get away. Everything was sharp, too sharp, time slowing down to an awful crawl. Hard, unforgiving wood beneath his cheek, the smear of blood that followed his lip as he dragged his face along the floor. Trying to turn, and maybe he imagined her, Anne standing in her bedroom door, white-faced and frozen. She looked at him, then closed the door without a sound. He couldn't ask for help; she wouldn't help him. He tried to look up at John, even though the motion made the pain in his shoulder burst like fireworks, but he could only see him out of the corner of his eye, and how the hell was he supposed to fucking beg if he couldn't even look the guy in the eye? He saw John's arm go up, and then the world shook, fell in on him and went dark.


	16. Chapter 16

He was cold.   
That was the first thing Joe knew, the only thought that came clearly. He was cold, and something bad had happened, something had gone wrong. He moved his hand, groping for the edge of the bed and the haversack that he kept beside it, but it wasn't there. In fact, he wasn't in his bed at all, he was on the ground, his hand passing over dirt and hoar-frosted grass. Then he started to remember, David throwing the newspaper down in his lap, David shouting through the door at him after Joe had tossed him out of his room. Going downstairs, and John, and Arnold, but he wasn't Arnold, he was -  
"...don't know if I can do it. Do you think I can really do it?" The voice was a reedy, nervous shake.  
"Kill him? Of course you can." Cold, the pacing measured and patient. "But whether he lives or dies is immaterial. If you want him to suffer, I've told you what you need to do." The voices were coming from his left. He held himself still, tried to ease one eyelid open. But his vision was all fucked, nothing but undulating smears of white. And he could barely open his eyes, and it hurt, God, the whole left side of his face felt like pulp.  
"Who do I want to suffer?" It was John, his voice pitching up towards hysterical. "Him or Ken?"  
"Why not both?" His left shoulder hurt too. Would he even be able to use his arm? He would roll to his right side, grab the bag with his good arm and make a break for it. Where was his bag? Joe opened his right eye, fighting against a wave of vertigo as the world swam in. Fucking trees. They had dragged him outside somewhere, no quick escape through a doorway.  
"No, I. I don't want Ken to hate me, I want -"  
"Hate you?" Arnold cut in. "He won't hate you for this. He'll thank you, John. You're doing this for him."  
"But I -"  
"He's been taken in, you said it yourself. What would happen to him, if your parents found out?"  
"You." John's voice broke, firmed. "You're right. I have to kill him."  
"After. First, the shirts." _No,no,no_. There was blood, thick and half-congealed in the corners of his mouth, blood filling his nostrils and making his breath come in a ragged wheeze. Joe struggled to keep his breathing slow as he turned his head in increments, where the fuck was his bag, where were the shirts?  
"Why? What the hell do they matter?"  
"They're a symbol, John." Jesus, he even talked like her, now that Joe knew to listen for it. Her same easy, melodic cadence. "A symbol of the hold this man has over your brother. Destroy them, and you set him free."  
"I don't understand."  
" _Useless!_ " Graf growled in German. Then, "Have faith in me, John. Haven't I proven that you can trust me? Who can you trust, except for me? No one else would stand beside you through this."  
"But you won't help," John said desperately. Louder, more tattered. "Get rid of them yourself, if they're so important." They were close, too close, standing scarcely a body length away from where they had left Joe on the ground. The haversack was laying a few feet behind John. Joe could reach it if he moved fast enough, but there was no way in hell he was escaping with it.  
"This is your brother. You must be the one to act."  
"If I do this, then you'll help me?"  
"I will stand by you. If you kill him, I will aid you in hiding your actions. I will never breathe a word of what has transpired to another living soul." Fuck, there wasn't any other option. No choices to be made.  
Silence followed her words, terrible and vast enough to bury them all beneath its weight. "Okay," John finally said into the waiting void. "Alright, I'll do it."   
One chance, he only had this one chance.   
He braced his arm beneath him, bolted to his knees, his feet. The world was a vortex, a liquid whirl of trees, sky, Graf and John's looming figures, with the haversack its fixed center. Joe lurched forward, two staggering steps, and his hand found the strap of the bag, a motion as easy and familiar as turning a latch or twisting fiber to set the spindle to motion. He had it, he had it, and he ignored the spasming pain as he planted his free hand against the frozen dirt to push away and run, and then John careened into him and sent him back to the ground.   
"Very determined," Graf said from somewhere over John's shoulder, out of sight.  
"Just stay down," John gasped. He grabbed the haversack and yanked, and Joe twisted himself around it, clutched it against his stomach and chest, _No, you can't do this, you'll have to fucking kill me first_. His free hand scrabbled its way across John's face, trying to find purchase, some perfect grip that would hurt or shock him enough to get him to let go, but John only slammed his fist down into Joe's cheek and nose, and Joe heard a crack, felt something split, and he tried to hold on to it, to them, but John pulled the haversack away.  
"They're really that important to you?" He asked, viciously triumphant. "Let's have a look at them." Joe's vision had gone blurry again, but he could see well enough to make out John's shadowy shape, a black smudge against the white of the sky, its surface splintered by the silver of ice-laden tree branches. He was going to die here, colorless and cold. Whether they killed him or not, he was as good as dead, if he couldn't save them. John ripped the haversack open and upturned it, the contents of Joe's life spilling to the ground. Joe rolled to his side, grief and rage pulling him forward, reaching for the shirts, but John kicked him away. He dropped the haversack and crouched down, retrieving something from the dirt. The softest snick of sound, and he was holding a flame in his hand, small and bright and terrible.  
"Fortunate for us that he had this," he said cheerfully. "I wouldn't know how to start a fire without one. That's more Ken's area. Funny how he can be so practical on the one hand and so reckless on the other."  
"That's why you look out for him," Graf all but purred, reaching down to put a hand on John's shoulder. "Burn them, John. Now."  
_Jesus, no_. His hand flailed, twisted in the fabric of John's pant leg. _Please no, I'm fucking begging you_. John's face swam in and out of focus. Joe stared up at him, forcing himself to ignore the blood dripping from somewhere down into his eyes and the violent need to retch. John's eyes were dark, nothing like David's, but there had to be some part of him that resembled his brother, some part that Joe could reach and speak to. He gestured with his free hand, at Graf, at John. _Don't trust her, she doesn't give a fuck about you. She'll leave you broken and twisting in the wind. Please, please don't do it_. John stared down at him, his brow furrowed, glanced away, at Arnold.  
"What could you be trying to tell us?" Arnold murmured, his smile sharp and secretive. "If only you could speak." He frowned, sudden and jarring, his entire demeanor changing. "No," he hissed, looking up, towards the sky, towards something behind them. " _What are you playing at?_ " Then, to John. "Now, John. Do it now!"   
"I -" John hesitated, his head turning back and forth between Graf and Joe, his eyes wild, wide, and then a shape slammed into him, sending them both flying to the ground. Joe didn't stop to try and figure out what the hell was going on, just threw himself forward onto the shirts, pulling them into his arms and against his chest.   
" _You dare this?_ " He scrabbled away from Graf, from the fury in his voice, but Arnold wasn't looking at him. He was still staring at something above them, his eyes all but glowing, his teeth bared. Joe looked up.  
At first he didn't see anything, just the stiffly still bent tree limbs arching over them, heavy with ice. Then something passed overhead, a white shadow, restlessly circling, the thrumming beat of powerful wings.  
"Kill him, John!" His eyes were definitely glowing now, a clear, unnatural green. Arnold snarled at Joe as he paced around John and his assailant, still struggling against each other on the ground. "Kill him and destroy the shirts!"  
"What are you doing, John," David grated out, because it was David, of course it was David. He managed to flip John onto his stomach and wrestle his arms into a rough hold. "You stay the hell back," he said to Arnold, hardly sparing him a glance. "Lieb, are you okay?" He looked at Joe, and his mouth snapped shut, his eyes flaring with shock. He gaze flipped to John, then Arnold. "I should kill you both."  
More noises from above; Joe tipped his head back, his mouth falling open, his chest tightening. There was more than one shape wheeling over their heads. They were here. He didn't understand how, but they were here. A sound tried to tear loose from his throat; a sob maybe, or their names. He staggered to his feet.  
"Kill them, kill them!" Graf was roaring, shrieking, unable to intervene. She had bent the rules to the breaking point, but she couldn't touch the shirts, or the players. The wind picked up, the trees creaked and groaned around them.  
"Stop it!" A new voice; Joe tore his eyes away from the sky long enough to see Anne standing among the trees, trembling and glaring at Arnold. "What is wrong with you, what do you want from us?" The swans were trying to land, were having trouble finding a way down through the sprawl of trees. The brittle crack of heavy wings batting against branches, the rustle of feathers. Joe clutched the shirts with his bad arm, lifted his good arm up towards them, like need alone could bring them safely down to the ground.  
"I'm trying to save you, Ken," John gasped, struggling to break free of David's hold on him. "You think anyone else would do this for you? You think mother and father would ever speak to you again if they knew?"  
"Knew what?" David bit out.  
"That you're in love with a man!" John shouted, his voice cracking. David blanched, his hold on John going slack, and John scrabbled away.  
"What?" David croaked, staring at his brother.  
"How could you?" John was struggling to his feet, David still crouched on the ground in front of him. "You're not supposed to be like this. I'm meant to be the disappointment, not you. You're supposed to -"   
" - John, shut up -"  
" - go back to Harvard and marry some terribly clever thing and tell war stories at dinner so everyone can fall over themselves -"  
" - God, shut up!" David jumped to his feet, grabbed John roughly by the scruff of his coat and jerked him in close. "That's what this is about? I'm not the brother you wanted me to be, so you try to kill Lieb?"  
"Ken," Anne said behind them.  
"Stow it, Anne," David snapped, not looking away from John.  
"Kenyon," she said again, her voice rising with urgency. "Look." The swans had cleared the canopy of branches. They were landing, graceless but powerful, white wings beating hard enough to move the air, make it hum. Slender necks stretched long, wings held half-open, as if they might take flight again at any moment. There were five of them; they were all here. Joe glanced up, at the singular shape still circling above the trees. _Oma?_  
_Joseph, Joseph_. Then she was gone, lifting herself higher with impossibly wide wings, until her stark white form disappeared from sight.  
"What," David said helplessly, breaking the stunned silence that had fallen on them all. "What the fuck is happening?"  
" _Not this one, sister_ ," Graf shouted, his face turned up towards the empty sky. " _You won't take this from me_." He spun back to John. "Now, John! Will you fail your brother, your family? Will you always be their weakest child? This is your moment. Seize it!"  
"Let me go, Ken," John pleaded. "Let me save you."  
"Fucking hell, John," David said, looking back and forth between John, the swans, Arnold. He let go of John's arms, and punched him in the face, a heavy, terribly dull sound. John reeled back, slipped bonelessly to his knees. David grabbed the lapels of his coat and dragged him backwards, towards Anne and away from Graf.  
_Move, what the hell are you waiting for?_ Joe fumbled with the shirts, pulling the first one free and tucking the remaining four back under his bad arm. The swans were pacing warily around him, their heads swiveling on their long necks, their beaks snapping open and closed with distress, like they were being held from flight against their will. He stepped towards the nearest one.  
"Don't." Suddenly David was there, one hand on his elbow and the other wrapping around his back, trying to pull him away. "It's a wild animal, Lieb." Joe shook him off, gritting his teeth against the wrench of pain that the movement caused his shoulder. "Lieb, what are you -" Joe shoved his face in close, snarling and unsteady, planted a hand on David's chest and shoved him away. _Don't touch me, don't help me_. David stared at him, and let go when Joe yanked his elbow free of his hold.  
The first swan hissed when he approached, its neck bobbing back and forth aggressively. Joe moved closer, tried to search its eyes, almost lost in the black edge of its beak, for some sign of awareness, recognition. But there was nothing. He held the shirt out, just two squares of woven fabric, sewn together as simply and neatly as he could manage. _Come on, please. It's me_. It fluffed its snowy wings out, turned its head to the side to stare at him with one small obsidian eye, and held still. Joe slipped the neck of the shirt over its head.  
Graf _screamed_ , a roar of sound, enough to make the air around them shake. The swans trumpeted their fear, beat their wide wings, but they stayed, they stayed. Joe moved as quickly as he could, from one to the other, his hands shaking, his heart pounding in his fingertips. His vision was starting to give out on him again, or else the world itself was congealing around them, clinging to his skin, sticking to the shirts and the fraying shape of the swans. He could hardly see for all the cloying white, could hardly hear anything under the sound of Graf's rage. He dropped the final shirt over the head of the fifth swan, watched it slide down its neck to settle over pale feathers. It spread its wings, its shoulders, arms, fingers. It cried out, it gasped and grew, then fell forward, catching herself on her palms. She lifted her head, God, she looked half-wild, and so afraid. _Judy_.   
"Joe?" She said. "Joe, oh God -" He half-crouched, half-collapsed in front of her, pulled her to him, felt her arms fold shakily around his shoulders, and what did pain matter, what did any of the last five years matter, against this? His sister, here, finally here. They clung together, rocking back and forth, he pushed her away just enough to check her face again, _you're here, you're okay, you're gonna be okay_ , then he hauled her back in. He looked over her shoulder, through swollen lids and watering eyes, and there were Jake and Klara, slowly picking themselves up off the ground. Love rose, too huge to pass through his throat and transform to words, and he tamped down on it reflexively, tucking Judy under his arm so they could stagger together towards their siblings. They fell in on each other, shaky questions and trembling limbs, and then Al and Gertie were there, they were all there, and Joe couldn't breathe from the crushing relief of it.   
"Where are we?" Klara asked, sniffling against the cold and her tears. "Were we really, I mean, it wasn't a dream, was it? Was it real?"  
"She told us to come with her, and we did." Gertie was shivering, dressed in a thin blouse and skirt, the nettle shirt hanging tunic-like from her frame. They were in the same clothes they had worn the day they disappeared, or so Joe assumed. "Why would we go with her?" They pulled in tighter, a huddle of bodies, heads and shoulders pressed close.   
"How long, Joe?" Al asked, dreadfully.  
"What happened?" Judy asked, saving him from replying. "She didn't get you too, did she? What's happened to you?" She touched his cheek, the swollen flesh around his eye.   
"Your hands," Jake said, quietly, the way he did when he was feeling overwhelmed. He peeled Joe's hand free from his arm and Joe let him, let him turn his palm over, enclosed and hidden in the circle they had made, until the scrutiny of their eyes became too much and he had to yank free, wrapping his arm around Jake's back. "Joe, what did she do to you?"  
"Why aren't you answering us?"   
"Where's pop?"  
"Where's the nearest door, Joe? We gotta get out of here."  
It was too much, their voices, their concern and confusion. Joe couldn't do anything other than clutch them hard-handed. His face was buried in someone's shoulder, his teeth gritted against the onslaught of questions and the terrible, pure fucking joy of having them back, _Don't ask me, please don't ask me, I don't know_.   
"Christ," Al said on a punch of breath. "Is that her?" Joe turned, disentangling himself from their hold. David was standing, caught halfway between his brother and sister, and Joe and his siblings. His mouth was hanging open, his eyes wide and blue, so blue. Behind him, Anne's face was blank with shock, John limp and barely conscious in her arms. And Graf, Graf stood apart from all of them, fury writhing across his features. _It's over, you hear me? You lost_.  
" _Is that what you truly believe?_ " He replied, then threw back his head and laughed. " _This is just one match in an endless series, nephew_." His eyes slid towards David, he smiled, bright flashing teeth. " _And I have already chosen my next stratagem_." There was no shifting of flesh, no movement that a human eye could pick out and track, just a blink, and Graf had moved and changed, taking on the form Joe and his family had known her by. She was standing over Anne and John. Anne made a small, distressed sound, and Adele knelt down beside her, her white palm coming up to cup her cheek.  
"Come, child," she murmured. "You and your brother are going on a journey." Her eyes cut to David. "What will you sacrifice, for a family that only ever loved the surface of your waters?"  
"I - what?" David spluttered. "What are, what do you mean?" His voice strengthened. "What are you?"  
"Follow, if you care to," she answered. "Either way, the game has begun." And then she was gone, and John and Anne with her.  
"Where...Anne? John!" David turned, slowly at first, then frantically, searching the surrounding trees. "Where are they, where did they go?"  
"David."  
His voice was a thin scratch, hoarse and hollow with disuse. David's head whipped around, his mouth falling open and then snapping closed.  
"Lieb?" He asked, his jaw and voice shaking. Joe nodded to him, a jerk of the chin, falling back into their old understanding, _I'm here, you're not alone_. He turned back to his brother and sisters.  
"Stay here, okay?"  
"Joe, no -"  
"Don't worry, I'll be right back." He tried to infuse his words with bravado, but he didn't remember anymore what that sounded like. "Just stay together, stay warm."  
"Stay warm?" Gertie repeated incredulously. "Forget that. Stay here, Joe. Don't go after her."  
"Can't let her start it all over again." Jesus, how had he done this before? He barely understood his own words.  
"You're beaten half to death Joe, you're not going anywhere," Al said evenly.  
"How are you gonna stop her?" Judy asked.  
_I don't know_.   
"We don't know where she went, and there aren't any doors," Jake pointed out. "How will you get to her?"  
_I don't know_. But he couldn't talk anymore, had used up all the words he knew. He stepped away, reaching back without looking to take David by his elbow. "Just listen to me for goddamn once." His heel came down on something, large enough to make him stumble and lean against David momentarily. He looked down, and saw his oma's spindle, laying where it had fallen when John had dumped the contents of the haversack out onto the ground. _Look at the spindle, Joseph_. He picked it up, curled his palm and fingers around it. _Do you know what this spindle turns?_  
_I fought a war with you_ , he thought, staring down at its short, slim length, its gently tapering shape.  
"Lieb," David said, half a question, half a plea.  
_The passages are everywhere_ , his oma had said. She had never lied, not really. Joe glanced up, towards the trees.  
"Don't think about anything," he said, turning to look at David, "except me."  
"What?" David was staring at his mouth, his expression caught somewhere between terrified and fascinated. This wasn't how they spoke; words were a time-wasting distraction. Joe reached up and grabbed him by the back of the neck, pulled him down so he could press their foreheads together, staring into his eyes. Their noses brushed, David's breath fanned across his lips, fast and shallow with fear. _Me, focus on me. You understand?_ He waited until David nodded shakily, then let go of his neck and grabbed his arm, leading him into the trees. Al and Judy were saying something behind him, but he wasn't listening. He picked two trees, standing tall and close together. _I don't need to ask you for anything_ , he thought grimly at them. _I need a doorway, so that's what you're gonna be_. It wasn't the trees he had to convince though, and he knew it. He scowled at them as he pictured Anne, how she had looked at him when he tossed her that candy bar, and then John the way he had been that first day, sitting like a kid on the attic floor with David. He held their faces in his mind as he pulled David through the passageway of trees, and into the dining room of David's home.   
David made a low, wordless sound of shock as they appeared in the doorway, and Adele turned from where she was standing silhouetted against the window, her eyes flashing in the low light, gleeful and wildly green.  
" _Goodness, you are a viciously clever creature, nephew_ ," she said, clapping her hands together in delight. " _If only you had been a god_."   
Joe snorted. _And have to put up with you for eternity? Yeah right_.   
" _It's a fine trick you've learned_ ," she continued on, " _Worthy of your blood, but it changes nothing. I've already begun, you see_." She gestured with a wave of her hand, towards the table where David's family was sitting.  
Less than a day ago they had all sat there together, in a glowing display of wealth and indulgence. Now the fireplace was unlit, their faces only illuminated by the thin pale light streaming in through the windows. Now the table was bare of food, the room stripped of warmth and conversation. The silence was palpable, and David's family was sitting unnaturally still in their chairs, locked woodenly in place. Their eyes were the only part of them that moved, their faces blank and empty. David cursed under his breath and went to them, dropping to his knees beside his mother's chair.   
"What's wrong with them?" He asked, looking back at Joe.  
"Ask her," Joe answered, tipping his head towards Graf. "So what are you waiting for?" He said to her, stepping forward. "Where's the big speech, the glowing skin?"  
"We await my sister," she replied in English. "She delays in giving her consent to the terms of the game: a purposeless gambit to win you more time. I cannot imagine to what end."  
"Let my family go now," David said, rising to his feet, "or I'll kill you."  
"Many have tried," she answered as Joe took another step towards her. "Nearly all with a happier chance at success than you, little lamb. Your liebling is one of them; how do you imagine he gained that lovely scratch along his neck? The one you stare at and wonder over, the one you imagine touching with fingers that could heal." Joe could feel David looking at him but he didn't look back, kept his eyes on Graf.  
"What're you gonna make him do?" He asked, in an attempt to get her focus off of him. It worked; she smiled and licked her lips, turning slowly on her heel to look back at David.  
"I can be merciful, when it pleases me," she murmured. "And I have always appreciated beauty. David Webster, your family has passed their lives in shrouds of gold. They see the world through its gleaming curtains, they refuse to part the fabric and look upon its stains. You were bold; you stepped through and wandered that darkness, didn't you?"  
"I." David stared at her, his face pale. His throat convulsed as he swallowed hard. "I was an idiot."  
"Yes. In this you are no better or worse than the rest of your fellow mortals. You looked, and you flinched, but you did not look away. Now your family will do the same."  
"What the fuck does that mean?" David asked. Joe was nearly to her, she was too caught up with her new toy to pay him any mind.  
"Four years will they walk the earth, seeing only its horrors. Four years for you to lift the dark veil from their eyes, or they will be lost to it forever. All you must do to see this done," she lifted her hands in an open-palmed gesture, "is survive."  
"Survive what?" He bit out.  
"Me," she answered, her voice dropping in anticipation. "It has been centuries since I've enjoyed a proper hunt." She tapped a finger against her red lips. "What form shall I give you? It must be one that suits both your nature and the game. A hart? An albatross, perhaps?" She snapped her finger as Joe sidled up behind her. His whole body hurt, a cascade of pain, and his heart was pounding so loud it seemed impossible that she couldn't hear it. But his hands were steady. "A selkie! Each sunset you will shed your seal skin, and each sunrise you will don it again and take to the sea. And I -"  
She cut herself off abruptly, spinning to catch Joe's hand in its downward motion, the movement smoothly unerring. It was only then that she bothered to look away from David, glancing up at the spindle held in the air between them.  
" _You disappoint me, nephew_ ," she sighed. " _Did you really believe I wouldn't feel your intent? Can you, with your limited understanding, truly comprehend that tool's purpose?_ "  
_It's anything_ , Joe thought in answer, staring at the spindle, the gap between their bodies that it hovered over. _It's whatever I need it to be_. He let it go, and she made to catch it as it fell, but it wasn't there. It was in Joe's other hand, had fallen neatly between the doorways he had made for it. He adjusted his grip, and Graf's hand tightened painfully on his wrist, and he might have cried out but he couldn't because all his thought and heart was focused on this one thing, this movement of his arm, that carried the spindle forward and drove it straight into the witch's chest. It was a weapon; it had been his only weapon for five long years.  
She didn't scream; a scream was too thin and human a sound, a scream couldn't compare to the searing, sucking press of noise that filled the air around them. It was intense enough to force Joe away from her, nearly tripping over his own feet as he stumbled backwards. Out of the corner of his eye he saw David duck his head, his hands clapping down over his ears. Graf doubled over, curled her hands around the end of the spindle where is was sticking out of her chest. She yanked it free, and she _flickered_ , like a vein of lightning, like a failing, stuttering moving reel, and the sound of her pained anger pushed forcefully against Joe and the walls of the room, and then she collapsed to her knees and was gone.   
At the table, in the ringing silence that Graf's disappearance left behind, David's family all began moving at once. John slumped down in his seat and fell to the floor, Anne and David's father both jumped to their feet, Anne staggering around the table to reach John, David's father staring open-mouthed at the spot where Graf had vanished. He hadn't ever resembled David more strongly than he did in that moment, standing straight and blank-faced. David's mother slid shakily off her chair and half-fell against David, one hand coming up to cup his cheek.  
"Kenyon," she said, and dropped her face against his chest and started to sob.  
"It's. It's alright, Mother," David said. He had been staring at Joe; he tore his eyes away to throw a pleading glance at his father.  
"Darling. Joan." Mr. Webster crossed the length of the table to pull his wife into his arms. David looked at Joe again, his expression impossible to read, then turned away, shoving a chair aside so he could join Anne on the floor beside John. Joe felt the fight slip out of him, sagging down on himself. _Just for a minute_. Just a moment to breathe, gather himself, and then he would go back for his sisters and brother. He stared at the spindle as it rolled in a circle on the floor where the witch had dropped it. _What are you now?_ He thought at it, and then the door flew open and Joe and everyone in the room looked up, fresh fear rising, but it wasn't Graf, it was-  
"Joseph." His father staggered toward him, his arms held out. Joe stared dumbly up at him, turned sideways on his knees, his hands nerveless and limp in his lap. His father joined him on the floor, one hand on his shoulder, the other coming up to settle on the side of his head. Joe could feel his fingers shaking against his temple. His father looked at him, his eyes traveling across his face, seeing everything, the surface damage and all the rest beneath, the shit that wouldn't heal with time. Joe looked away, suddenly small, ashamed. "My boy," his father said brokenly. "How will I ever ask for your forgiveness?"  
"Don't, Pop," Joe said hoarsely, the first words to come to him naturally, if not easily. His father made a low, awful sound, and Joe didn't resist when he pulled him into a tight embrace, or fight against it when he pulled Joe's head down to his shoulder. His arms hung between them; Joe couldn't lift them. He closed his eyes against the tears and forced himself to speak again. "Just don't leave, okay? Just take us home."


	17. Chapter 17

"You hold still," Al said preemptively before setting her makeshift compress against the side of Joe's face. He hissed through his teeth and tried to pull away, and Al followed after him, putting a firm hand on his good shoulder to hold him in place. "What did I just tell you," she said, quiet and business-like. Behind her, Klara was running careful fingers over the dresser's honey-colored surface, while Jake and Gertie huddled in the far corner of the room and muttered to each other. He couldn't hear them, but it was obvious from the glances they kept throwing his way when they thought he wasn't looking that they were talking about him. _Got something to share with the damn class_ , he wanted to say, would have said, but he didn't. Couldn't. Instead he looked the other direction, towards the door where his old man was talking to David's mother and father, Judy posted at his shoulder like a sentinel. Like they were guarding the door or something. Which was ridiculous, and pointless, and Joe was so goddamn grateful for it he could cry.  
He was supposed to be getting them home, but ever since he had returned to the house with his brother and sisters in tow, he hadn't done anything but nod along to whatever Al and his father told him to do, and avoid looking at the Websters as much as possible. His old man had asked David's mother if there was a room where he could be alone with his children, all constrained, simple dignity, and she had stared at him for a moment before slipping back into good manners and offering them use of the guest room. She had led them up the stairs, and stood in the doorway as they filed past her. Joe came last, leaning on Jake for support, and she made a small, quickly aborted movement with her hand as they walked by. Jake stopped, which meant that Joe had to stop too. Joe forced himself to look at her, pale but composed, her hair and clothing so perfectly arranged that you would never imagine she had been a tearful wreck not even half an hour prior.   
"I hope," she said, and then stopped, her lips pressing tightly together for a moment before trying again. "That is, I wanted to ask you." She stopped again, her eyes searching Joe's face carefully, too carefully, before shifting away, glancing at his sisters gathered up behind him. She looked back at Joe and gave him a small, emotionless smile. "I gather that this is your family, Lieb?"  
It took him longer than it should to remember to open his mouth and answer out loud. "Yeah. Uh." He indicated Jake with a jerk of his thumb. "This is Jake, my brother. And my sisters, Gertie, Judy, Klara and Al. And my father."  
"Joseph," his old man said, stepping forward, and it wasn't until he saw his outstretched hand that Joe understood that he was introducing himself, not speaking to Joe.   
"Joan," she replied in turn, taking his hand in hers, like they were being introduced at a party, like any moment now someone might come around and pass out drinks. Joe could hear the murmur of voices drifting from further down the hall; it sounded like David and the rest of his family were in John's room, probably tossing a coin between whether they should call Redding or the sheriff.   
"Thank you, Joan, for everything you have done for my son." He glanced at Joe, his eyes brimming with emotion, then blinked owlishly and turned back to David's mother. "You have been sheltering him, I gather?"  
"Sheltering," David's mother echoed tonelessly. Joe cleared his throat.  
"Yeah, Pop. They've been great." It hurt to smile, so he didn't try very hard, switching to German and leaning back to indicate to Jake which way he should be moving them. " _Can we go? I want to be home_."  
_"Very soon. We should answer this family's questions to the extent we are able_." His father touched his cheek, lightly, briefly. " _After all, they took care of you when I could not_." Joe didn't have the words to reply to that, so he looked away.  
"Well, I gotta sit down," he said to his boots. David's boots.   
"C'mon," Jake said, helping him to the bed.  
"If you would excuse us," his father said to Mrs. Webster. "It has been far too long since I last spoke to my children."  
"Of course," she murmured, stepping out of the room and closing the door quietly behind her.  
Then Joe was alone with them. His family.   
Jake helped him to the edge of the bed, and they all gathered around in a loose circle. Klara sat beside him and laid her head down on his good shoulder, and Joe tucked her in against his side, buried his nose in her hair and fought to control his breathing.  
"Go ahead, get on with it," he said into the expectant silence. He stared over the top of Klara's head, towards the closed door. "What do you wanna know first?"  
"We don't have to -" Gertie began.  
" How long?" Al interjected.  
Joe opened his mouth to try to speak, stopping when his old man put a hand on his arm, his fingers a soft, reassuring pressure. "Nearly five years," he answered for Joe, and Joe could feel the slight tremble of his hand, and they all heard the unsteady rattle in his voice. "Just a few months short of five years."  
"And Max?" Al asked. "Kay and Theo?"  
"They're still in Oakland. I don't know more than that." He didn't look away from Al as he answered her, but his lips pulled down in a spasm of distress. "Max stopped trying to speak to me years ago."  
Al didn't cry, didn't move or make a sound, but she still broke in front of them, a tectonic shift in her eyes. Gertie wrapped an arm around her waist, urging her down until she was seated on Joe's other side, the fucked up side. Joe put a hand on her knee and Al clutched his fingers and breathed, loud and ragged, while her family enclosed her in a tighter circle of bodies.  
"We need to go," she finally said, her voice steady. "I need to see them, now."  
"Yes," their father agreed. "Give me a few moments to speak with-" He hesitated, looking at Joe.  
"The Websters," Joe scratched out.  
"-the Websters, and we will all go home together. If that is what you want."  
"Of course that's what I want," Al said. She looked around at her siblings. "That's what we want?" They all chorused their agreement.  
Their old man made a sound in his throat, like something in there had snapped or split. "I wasn't sure if -" he choked out, then turned his face away, his hand leaving Joe's shoulder to come up and cover his face.  
"Pop," Judy said, hard and more than a little angry. "It wasn't your fault. It was Graf."  
"It wouldn't be home if you weren't there," Klara said, and then they had to watch their father break too, collapsing down and dropping his forehead against Klara's knee, like he couldn't stand to lift his face. It was too much, for all of them. The circle buckled, folded in on itself, broken voices and reassurances, warmth and pain and safety.  
Now here they were, less than an hour later, killing time while their father explained what he could about all the crazy that the Websters had just experienced. It didn't sound like it was going so great, from the way Mr. Webster's voice kept lifting up with angry incredulity. Joe wasn't listening, not really; he didn't need to. They had all agreed beforehand on what they would be telling the Websters: the truth, for the most part, only leaving out the doors and the family connection to Graf. The first part was their ace in the hole in case they needed a quick escape, and the second wasn't anyone else's damn business but their own.   
"You've barely said two words." Al's voice pulled him back, to the pain in his body and the fact that she was here, right in front of him. She wasn't looking at him, was focusing on her hand where it was pressing the compress against his eye and cheek, but Joe knew that for the careful handling it was. She didn't say anything else, just waited with stone-like patience.  
He didn't need to clear his throat, but Joe found himself doing just that each time he got ready to speak. "Guess I got outta the habit. Been a quiet five years without you jerks around."  
"Find that hard to believe." Her eyes flicked around the room. "How long have you been staying here?"  
"Past few months. David, uh, the one Graf was setting up for the next go round?" Al nodded to show she knew who he was referring to. "He's a good guy, been letting me stay with him."  
"No questions asked?"  
He snorted. "Yeah, right. Fat chance of that." He shrugged his good shoulder. "But he didn't kick me out when I wouldn't answer him. So."  
Al made a noise in her throat. "Did you go back at all? Back home?" She still wasn't looking at him, but now it was for her own sake and not Joe's.   
"Couple of times. Only when I had to, and I didn't stick around." He knew what she wanted to ask, but he was too fucking tired to answer her like he should. Instead he gestured at his haversack, laying on the floor beside the bed. "Check in there, in the pocket on the side." Al shot him a look, but let him take over with the compress and knelt down to root around where Joe had indicated. She pulled out the newspaper article, unfolding it with steady hands. Joe watched the top of her head as she read it, waiting for a reaction, some sign of an impending fall apart. But this was Al; he should have known better.  
"He doesn't hate me," she said at last, looking up at Joe with shining eyes. "He doesn't think I ran out on him."  
"Didn't read that way to me either," Joe said in agreement.  
"I need to," she said, and then stopped, a single convulsive shake moving through her body.  
"I know," he answered. "Soon. I promise." They both looked towards the terse conversation still taking place in the doorway. "How much longer could this take, right?"  
"To explain the past five years?" Al said, dust dry. Joe tried to laugh, but ended up just making a sharp hacking sound somewhere in his chest.  
"Hey. Al." He looked down at his lap. "Remember the time we busted up that fancy ball?"  
"Yeah, I do," she replied immediately. "I fell asleep, and you woke me up and dragged me home."  
Joe tried to swallow around the jagged jumble of feeling suddenly clogging his throat. "That ain't how I remember it," he finally managed to croak out.  
"Joe." Al put her hand over his. "That's how it happened." Joe turned his hand, locking their fingers together. Al leaned in against his knee and didn't try to say anything else.  
The sound of the door clicking shut made them look up. Their father and Judy were walking towards them. Judy motioned with her arm, and Klara, Jake and Gertie moved to join them in another huddled conference at the foot of the bed.   
"They've offered us a ride into town," Judy said. "I figure we should go along with it, wait until they clear off and then take a door back home. Less messy."  
"When?" Jake asked.  
"I told them we'd be down in a minute." They all looked at Joe.  
"Great," he rasped, because what the hell else was he gonna say? _Let's go, then_ , he tried to say but what came out instead was, "Did they say anything about David?" Gertie frowned; Judy tilted her head in confusion. "Or John?" He added lamely.  
"They said they wouldn't be pressing charges." Judy's tone made it clear what she thought of that.   
"Charges of what?" Klara asked.  
"Nothing," Joe said hastily. "They weren't there for the whole horror show." They looked at him, and he opened his mouth to explain the past twenty-four hours and their likely assumptions, but all that came out was, "It doesn't matter."  
"Huh." Klara was too damn young to be taking part in the quick exchange of glances Joe caught out of the corner of his eye; all five of his siblings wordlessly discussing what to do and say next. It pissed him the hell off. _What am I, glass? Quit fucking handling me_. He should tell them, he should make it clear they didn't need the kid gloves. But he didn't speak.   
"Well," Jake began, quiet and diffident, and then someone knocked hard on the door and they all glanced towards it. _Fuck_ , Joe thought, barely resisting the urge to hunker down on himself, curl protectively around nothing the way he had earlier, around the shirts. Judy started towards the door, but Joe stopped her with a motion of his hand.  
"I got it," he said. He knew who it was. He got up off the bed, swallowing dread and bruises, and made sure to set his fucked up arm at a natural looking angle, trying to play down how much it hurt. He couldn't do anything about his face, but what the hell. His family parted, releasing him to the room, and Joe walked to the door and opened it.  
"I need to talk to you," David said, flat and angry.   
_Yeah, I bet_. He nodded in answer and stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him. "Here?" He croaked out, and David's shoulder jerked, like he was shrugging off an unexpected touch.  
"My room." Half a challenge, half a command. Joe tried to lift a brow, twist his lip, _You think I care? You think anything you do matters to me now?_ But the left side of his face wasn't responding to what he tried to tell it, so the look was ruined. He rolled his good shoulder in a whatever motion, then stepped around David and walked down the hall to his room. He felt bare, too exposed without the weight of the haversack against his back.   
David followed him into his bedroom, closing the door behind him and leaning back against it. He didn't look at Joe, stayed half turned away with his hand on the knob of the door. "So," he said to the strip of wall beside the doorway. "You were never running from the mob, or the military. You've been running from a," he closed his eyes, ran a rough palm along his face, "from a _witch_."  
"Some kinda goddess, more like," Joe replied, as flippantly as he could manage. "But witch is close enough."  
"And you're her nephew," David said, dragging each word out, like he couldn't believe they were coming from his mouth.  
"You caught that, huh?" He turned away, willed his spine into a careless sort of slouch. David had mentioned before that he knew German, had served as a translator for Easy, but Joe hadn't been in a position to test his understanding. He was obviously fluent, if he had been able to understand Graf's unique patois. "She's no family of mine," he answered finally. "Just my oma's sister."  
"Your grandmother." The floorboards gave a soft groan as David shifted, but he stayed by the door. "The other goddess. Does that make you a demi-god?"  
_What?_ Joe felt an electric crackle of shock jolt through him, a punch of surprise. Fuck, was he? How had it never occurred to him before that he, that his father and brother and sisters, might be -  
"No," he said, too sharp. _No way_. "Of course not."  
"But you were able to, well. You teleported us from the woods to the house."  
_Teleported, what an idiot_. Joe waved his good hand dismissively. "That's not what that was. That was just a, a family thing."  
"A family thing," David repeated slowly. "The family of a goddess."  
"Witch."  
"You said, a moment ago -"  
"This really what you wanted to talk about?" Joe said, desperate to not think about it anymore. He turned around to glare at David, and Jesus Christ, that was a mistake, because David was looking at him in that same way, the way he had from the beginning. Sifting through him one layer at a time.  
"No, it's not," David answered tightly, glaring right back. "I want to know what happened today."  
"Anne didn't tell you?" She must have, she had to have been the one who got a hold of David. Joe let himself think about it, that moment on the floor when he had looked up and locked eyes with Anne as she silently closed her bedroom door. He had thought at the time...but he had been wrong about her. She was the reason he wasn't dead, the reason he had his family back. He would say that to David, if he were capable of thinking about it without breaking the fuck down, but he wasn't, so. He shook the moment, the memory, away. _Whatever, it's over_. "You were there, you saw what happened. Curse broken, witch gone."  
"Yes." David finally moved away from the door, measured, pacing steps that brought him to the corner of his bed, only marginally closer to Joe. "Your father painted the broad strokes. You had to make five shirts to change your family back, you couldn't speak or tell the truth about the curse until it was done." His voice was inflectionless, neutrally cold. Like it was barely worth looking at, the past five years of Joe's life. Joe didn't know if he preferred or loathed it. "Incredible as that all is, that's not what I need to know." David looked up at him, a burning, removed look that he had never turned on Joe before. "I need to know what happened with John."  
That. Low in his chest, something flipped over, queasy and miserable. Joe almost lifted a hand to press against the spot, but stopped himself, because David would pick up on the motion for sure. David who read his hands and his movements better than words. Talking was safer.   
"Don't hold it against him," he said, trying to remember how to speak carelessly. "It's what she does."  
"What _she_ does?" David repeated incredulously. "No, it's what _John_ did. Lieb, he was going to kill you."  
"Yeah, but it wasn't him." David just stared at him, blankly heated. "Okay, it was him, but she put the idea in his head."  
"What idea?"  
"How the fuck should I know?" He gestured with his hand, it was second nature at this point, his palm pushed forward accusingly, _he's your brother, you tell me what the hell he was thinking_. He talked over the motion, trying to cover it up, obscure it. "He wanted to protect you or something, and she used that. Trust me, she's done it before. Plants an idea and lets it do its thing."  
"How do you know that?"  
"She told me, that's how." His stomach jitterbugged and his fingers twitched with nerves in response to the look David was giving him. "What do you not get, Web? She's a manipulating witch. She couldn't step in directly 'cause that would've ended the game, but she could make backhanded plays. John was just the easiest target." _Because he knew the truth, because he saw what the rest of your family didn't_. Fuck, it was all Joe's fault. It was his fault.  
David just stared at him, his mouth opening and closing. "Web?" He finally said, all stunned and stupid sounding.  
_Jesus Christ,_ _that's what you heard?_ He had to get out of here. Back to his family, away from this. "Whatever." _Nice one_. "Look, are we done here?"  
"No, Lieb, we're not done here. Why are you - what is this?" He stepped closer, Joe fought against the urge to skirt around him and bolt for the door. "When are we going to talk about what we're going to do?"  
"I don't what the fuck you're talking about."  
"You do, you bastard."  
"You're an idiot, you know that?" For the first time it felt good, letting loose, letting his voice loose. "You think this is one of your dumb stories? You think we're gonna wrap it all up, think we're at the end?"  
"No, I -"   
"I've got a fucking family to take care of, you know?" He was yelling. He could still yell. David was standing woodenly straight; he didn't react at all when Joe stomped forward and shoved a finger against his chest. "So do you, in case you haven't noticed. They're so desperate to get to you, it's pathetic. Jesus, you saw what John was willing to do to get you to fucking see him."  
"That isn't." David's jaw was clenched, his lips pinched flat. "That's not true."  
"Yeah, whatever you need to tell yourself." Joe took a step back, forced his busted lip up into a snarl. "I don't know what you thought this was, but let me help you out. I needed a place to hide, and you offered. End of story."  
"You don't mean that. What about the night you woke me up and dragged me out of the house?"  
"What about it?"  
"She found you, didn't she?" Joe looked away, which was as good as answering. "You could have run then, but you didn't."  
"Yeah, so?" He plowed on before David could speak. "I didn't feel good about leaving you behind to get your head fucked with, that don't change anything." He had to get _out_ , they were skirting too close to the shit he couldn't bear to look at. She hadn't gotten David, no, she had worked her claws into his brother instead. And it was Joe's fucking fault. He should have left months ago, but he stayed because he was a stubborn, lonely piece of shit, and because David was...fuck. Annoying, interesting, principled, good. And Joe had hidden behind him and let Graf tear David's fraying family to pieces. He deserved every blow John had given him and worse. And he was too goddamn tired to keep fighting.  
"Look, Web." His voice was too low, too rough; he swallowed and rubbed his hand against his throat, like he could warm the cords and sinews beneath and make it all come out easier, painless. "I got a life I gotta get back to. It ain't here." He looked over at David, made sure to keep his gaze steady. "And you have stuff you need to take care of. Some shit you can't get back, you know? Don't fuck it up."  
"And that's it?" David asked. His face was doing something new, something Joe hadn't seen before. He was turning blank right in front of Joe's eyes, a deliberately empty page. "That's what you want?"  
If it wasn't Joe's fault, if there had never been a curse, or a witch, or a door that had dumped him straight into David's life, even then it would never have worked. The world wasn't built for it; the divide was too huge. "Hey," Joe said, shrugging, circling his way around his answer, "it's not like I don't appreciate everything. But, yeah. Time to head home."  
"Well then." David looked away, his gaze shifting over Joe's shoulder. He smiled, sudden, jarringly wide and unhappy, then swiftly swallowed the expression. "Well," he said again, then turned carefully on his heel and walked out the door.   
_Huh_. If he thought it loud enough, Joe could almost convince himself that he didn't feel anything but bewildered satisfaction that he had gotten away with it all so easily. He gave himself a moment before following David out the door, glancing one last time around David's room. The unmade bed, the tall, haphazardly stacked pile of books sitting on the floor. The bright hard sea-salt smell that seemed to cling to anything that ended up in David's close proximity for any significant length of time. If Joe could bottle it up and take it with him, he wouldn't, because why remind yourself of something that hurt like hell?  
"Move, you dumb fuck," he said out loud, just to prove to himself and the room that he could do that kind of thing now, and then he walked out the door and back to the room where his family was waiting.  
"Everything okay?" Jake asked, standing with Gertie and Klara suspiciously close to the door.  
"Peachy," Joe muttered, looking around them to nod at Al and his old man. "We ready to go?"   
"Yes," his father answered, and Judy picked Joe's haversack up off the ground and Joe led them out of the room and down the stairs, to where David and his family, excepting John, stood waiting.  
David's mother gave Joe the stiffest, most uncomfortable hug he'd ever experienced, and then wished him well so simply and sincerely that Joe could only nod and force out a gruff, "Thanks, you too." Anne held out a hand, so haughtily stone-faced that Joe couldn't tell if she wanted him to kiss it or shake it. He reached out and gripped her firmly, his fingers wrapping around her wrist and forearm, the way he might clasp hands with a brother in arms. "You really came through for me back there," he said, and she looked so startled that he couldn't help but grin at her, even though it made his whole face hurt.  
Then there was only David. Joe's family filed past him, following David's father to the car, and Joe hung back in the doorway, something like grief chewing away at his lungs. What the fuck was he supposed to say? _Thanks for saving me, have a nice life. And by the way, don't change, don't listen to anything I've said_. He just stared; he had no idea what his face or eyes might be hiding or giving away.  
"Lieb," David said, then stopped, a strange expression crossing his features. "Joe," he tried, hesitantly. Joe could feel his lips curling irresistibly up. He cocked his brow, raised his chin. _Yeah?_ David's mouth writhed, then straightened. "I'm glad I got to know you," he said, sober and sincere.  
Fuck it. They had always understood each other best like this anyway. Joe reached over and tapped David's mouth, then his throat. _You, David. Your voice, your words_. He leaned his head in towards him, held that hard blue gaze. _Understand?_ David nodded slowly, his eyes locked and intent on Joe.   
David's mother and sister were hovering near their shoulders, Joe's family was a silent tug at his back. Joe dropped his gaze and stepped backwards onto the porch. He turned away and trudged down the steps and to the car, Gertie holding the door open and shifting over as much as she could so that he could drop in beside her. She shot him a worried look, but didn't say anything when he dropped his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. His chest felt tight, and his eyes were burning, throwing up strange colors as if his retinas had been fried with too-bright light. Joe let the afterimages shift and morph behind his lids, and wasn't surprised at all by the shape they kept falling into, over and over again.


	18. Chapter 18

In hindsight, it had been pretty fucking stupid of him to think they could just go home. As if anything or anybody had held their breaths for them. Sure, pop was still living in the same house, had been following the same routine he always had, but that was all just window dressing. The reality, as Joe and his siblings soon learned, was that his old man had no one anymore, outside of his business acquaintances. Graf hadn't needed him to keep up with anyone, and so he hadn't. Concerned friends and neighbors had eventually dropped away, and his father had spent the past five years of his life haunting his own empty house.   
Not that he talked about it, any of it, at all. His face would do an awful cascading thing if anyone tried to ask, and he would always offer up the same soft rebuke: he would rather not dwell on the past. But all they had to do was walk around the house, the rooms heavy with dust and thickly stale, to figure out that he'd hardly done anything since they'd been gone other than walk a single line through his home, from the back door to the kitchen and then on to his bedroom.  
If Joe could take action, follow his gut, he would have his sisters throw every window and door in the house open. He would have set Jake and Judy to cleaning the place from top to bottom and gotten Al and Gertie started cooking up huge amounts of food in the kitchen while he and Klara went knocking on doors. He would have charmed and harangued every neighbor out of their house and over to his place, and he would have thrown the longest, most pointless party Oakland had ever seen, until every room was restored to worn brightness, and the gray shadow dropped from his old man's face. But it was hard to throw a party when they were still trying to hide their existence from the world.  
They needed a plan. Jake had insisted on that point their first night back. They were all sitting at the kitchen table, and Joe could fucking cry for how good it was to be back there with his family gathered around him, even if Klara had dropped off to sleep almost immediately. Al had suggested that they move her to her own bed but no one had been willing to wake her, so she stayed as she was, drooped and sagging against Jake's shoulder.   
"No one wants to hear it," Jake murmured, picking at the hunk of sweet bread that Al had plunked down in front of him, "but I don't think we can stay here. Not if we want to stay together." He paused, waiting for someone to protest, then continued on when no one spoke up. "We disappeared under strange circumstances, and people haven't forgotten. They'll ask questions, and we don't have any good answers."  
"That, and Joe's still wanted for desertion," Gertie threw in helpfully.  
"We need a new city," Jake surmised. "A new start."  
But it took time to dismantle a life the right way, without raising suspicion. So while pop started the process of closing the shop, Joe's brother and sisters paced circles around each other and argued in whispers over where they should resettle. Joe stayed out of it, answered with a shrug whenever they asked his opinion or tried to pull him into the discussion. He didn't care where they went, so long as they went together.   
"Looks like New York won out," Judy told him, letting herself into his room. "Easiest place to get lost, plenty of opportunity for work. Gertie didn't want to let go of Miami, but we wore her down."  
"Glad it's settled." He had been fiddling with the loom, putting it together and taking it apart again. He needed something to do with his hands, something he didn't have to think too much about.   
"Your face still looks awful," she said, coming to stand beside the bed.  
"Gee, thanks."  
"But I think the swelling's maybe gone down some. How's your shoulder?"  
"Fine. Better." He had left the house twice so far, the first time to visit a clinic to make sure nothing was broken. The doctor had put his arm in a sling and told him to try and keep it still.   
"Think you'd be interested in scouting out some places?"  
"In New York?"  
"Yeah. I mean, we're outta here as soon as Pop gets the shop squared away, right? We're gonna need a place lined up."  
The way she was hovering, he knew she was waiting for him to move over so she could plop down beside him. He tossed the loom to the side but stayed where he was. "You and Jake can handle it."  
"Huh." She didn't say anything else, just stood there and stared at him, sharp-eyed. He looked away. "Okay," she said after a moment. "You need anything?"  
"If I did, I could get it my damn self."  
"Cranky," she said neutrally, then leaned over him and kissed him gently on his purpled cheek. Then she left him alone, left the door hanging half-open, half-closed.  
There was something wrong with him. His family knew it; Joe knew it. He couldn't bring himself to speak, could hardly bring himself to _think_. Hell, it had taken everything in him to haul his ass out the door after Al the day she went to see Max, and he had only managed that because no one else had been willing to ignore her when she insisted that she go alone.   
"I'm _fine_ , Joe." Her voice was steely, her shoulder rigid beneath his hand as she tried to pull free; he just scowled and firmed his grip, and thought, _Al, Alma, Al_ , as he followed her through the door. They stepped into a dingy hallway, threadbare green carpeting and evenly spaced doors along its length; the apartment complex that sat across the street from the house where Al had lived with her family. "I don't want you coming along."  
"Hey, he won't even know I'm there." He followed her to the end of the hall and down the stairs. "I'll wait outside. Stay out of sight."  
"He's not gonna slam the door in my face, if that's what you're waiting on."  
"Of course he's not," Joe said, trying to match her calm assurance, because he knew, better than anyone, the thin front that it actually was. He knew Al. "But, you know. I'm outside if you need me. That's all."  
"I don't need you." She shoved the door open and they stepped out onto the sidewalk; it was a grey, cool day, spitting rain. Al turned and looked him over, rolled her eyes. "You look like you just came off a bad bender. Go home."  
"Al." He tipped his head in until she looked at him, really looked at him. "I'm gonna be right here waiting. Okay?"  
Al blinked once, slow, and then rapidly, her mouth twitching down and up. "Yeah," she said on a shuddering sigh. "Yeah, okay, Joe." He squeezed her arm, then set off down the sidewalk, his pace slow, looking over his shoulder to watch in snatches as Al crossed the street, then climbed the steps up to her front door. She didn't hesitate, just raised her hand knocked. _That's it, Al, you're fucking amazing_. She only had to wait a moment, and then the door opened, and Joe was far enough away at this point that he could only make out a sliver of Max's profile. He leaned up against the side of a building and tried to look casually unobtrusive, just a guy, nothing criminal or unhuman about him, no way. Al's mouth was moving, that was all he could make out from where he was watching. Max hadn't moved at all. _Come on, Max. Listen to her, believe her_. A woman looked at him as she walked by; Joe winked his unswollen eye at her and her lip curved up even as she picked up her pace. Al wasn't talking anymore, was just standing there, and Max still hadn't moved. _What the hell's wrong with you, if you close the door on her, I swear to God,_ and then Max moved backwards, out of sight. Joe felt his heart turn leaden and heavy in his chest, felt suddenly breathless with pain for his sister, but then Al stepped forward, and the door closed behind her, because Max had let her in.  
Joe gave it a couple of minutes, then pushed away from the building and crossed the street, curling in against the chill of the air and the reprimanding honk of oncoming traffic. He paused on the sidewalk to light a cigarette, cupping both hands in a loose shell to protect it from the wind and rain. Then he waited, prowling up and down the length of the block, stopping here and there to act like he had something to do other than watch a house like he was casing the place.  
One hour went by, then two. Joe's route brought him back around to the house, and this time he stopped in front of it, propping his hip against the rail and staring at the door as he considered his options. Should he knock, should he give them more time? He tapped his thumb against the corner of his mouth, had just committed himself to rounding the block one final time, when the door swung open, and Al stepped out. Her eyes landed on Joe; they were dark and wet and bright. Then she smiled, and Joe knew he had managed to get at least one of them home, really home.  
And honestly, what more could he ask for? His family together, and not just together, but _living_. They had found a place in New York, and now they were starting to plan their next steps. Jake was determined to get back to college, even if he had to start from scratch. Gertie and Judy had both decided to work for a time, then enroll in classes once they had settled in a bit. Klara pestered their old man for stories about the scant year that he and ma had lived there before settling in Detroit. And Joe hugged the walls and didn't speak.   
It should be enough. It should have been everything. Sometimes he wondered if he was still cursed, or had been cursed anew, some ragged, sinister little thing that Graf had thrown over him as she screamed and dropped to the floor. Yeah, he could speak, but he couldn't _speak_ , and it was fucking exhausting, and that wasn't right, that wasn't how he remembered it going before. And he couldn't think about the future, the way his brother and sisters and even his old man were. Only the past, only all the shit they had lost.  
If it was a curse, it was a fucking clever one. Give a guy everything he wanted, all hollowed out and weightless. And what could he do, what the hell he was supposed to do? She hadn't told him how to break it, she hadn't given him one damn hint about what to do next.   
"What're you looking at?"  
He looked away from the window, glancing over his shoulder at Klara. She was standing in the doorway, beaming with excitement. "Nothing. We ready to go?"  
"Just about. Everyone's saying goodbye to Max and the kids." Al would be traveling through a doorway along with the rest of the family, while Max stayed behind with Kay and Theo. They would be joining them in New York later, after Max wrapped things up here. Joe grunted and turned back to the window. He could hardly recognize Kay and Theo anymore, and they had both stared at him the way they might a confusing museum exhibit. He listened to Klara's footsteps as she came to stand beside him. She leaned, and Joe wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and they stood side by side and stared down at the street in front of their house. Klara's face, when Joe glanced at her, had lost nearly all its excitement, something like melancholy rising up to take its place.  
"Sad to be leaving?" he hazarded at a guess. This had been her home the whole of her life, after all.  
"Hmm?" She turned to look at him, then smiled and shrugged lightly. "A little, yeah. But just now, I was thinking -" she stopped, then looked guiltily away.  
"What?" Klara didn't answer, sagged more heavily against his side instead. Joe jostled her, tugged on her braid.  
"Stop!"  
"Just say it, you're not gonna offend anyone here if that's what's got you clammed up."  
Klara's mouth worked, words fighting to break loose, then the dam broke. "Okay, just wanna make it clear, it's not like I'm saying I wish I was still a swan, alright?" She barreled on, not waiting on a response from Joe. "I mean, I can hardly remember it anyway. Just these weird, I dunno," she raised a hand, gesturing towards her head, "flashes, these instincts. But they're hard to hold on to, and I don't miss that. But." She looked back out the window, and Joe realized that she hadn't been looking down, towards the street. She had been looking up. "But I remember what it felt like to fly. And I miss it. And then I almost hate myself, for missing it, and." She stopped again, burrowing her cheek in against his arm. "And, time didn't mean anything for us then, you know? There was nothing to miss, nothing to long for. And that whole time, you were alone."  
Joe stared at the top of her head and focused on not shoving her away. "I get it," he said eventually, even though he didn't, he didn't understand her at all. But she was afraid that she might hurt him, and she had said it anyway, and that was more than the rest of his siblings had given him since coming home. He was so fucking tired of being treated like he was soft-seamed, poorly patched.  
"Really?" Klara asked, hopeful and disbelieving. She raised her head and looked at him.  
"Yeah." _I don't care, I love you_. "Course I get it." Klara smiled at him, that blazing grin of hers, and really, nothing else mattered. It was what it had all been for. He dropped his arm, shoved her lightly towards the door. "'Bout time we got moving, huh?"   
"I'm ready," she said, with convincing sincerity. He followed her out of the room and down the narrow stairs, to where his family was standing, grouped loosely together, preparing to take a door directly to their new home. There was something ballooning up in Joe's chest, but he ignored it, had been ignoring its exponential growth for weeks now.   
Excitement and nerves rolling like waves between them, his old man's last minute murmured instructions, Judy and Klara holding each other's hands in an effort to anchor their palpable anticipation. The something in Joe's chest was bubbling up into his throat, a strangling obstruction. Jake went first, followed by Gertie, then Pop, then Klara and Judy. Al let the door sit closed for a moment, then stepped forward, and Joe _couldn't_ , he couldn't do it.  
"Al," he wheezed, choked out around the knot of panic. "Wait a second." She stopped, turned to look at him. He opened his mouth, scrambling to find the right words. _Talk, fucking talk_. He thought suddenly of David, even though he never let himself think about David, the way his mouth dropped dumbly open, always struggling to understand, to be understood. "I can't," he managed to say, and then, "Al -"  
"It's okay, you know," she said, brushing past his broken fumbling. "I get it. I'll explain it to the rest of them." Joe didn't know what to say; he didn't even know what there was to get, what she was going to explain. "Hey." Al reached out and cupped his chin, then dropped her hand before the touch could become too much for him. "You know where to find us when you're ready. Okay?"  
"Yeah," he managed to answer. "Okay."  
"I'll see you soon," she said, leaning up to kiss his cheek. Then she turned away and stepped through the door.  
Silence swept in when she left. Joe let it settle back over him. His brother and sisters had battered it away for a while, but sometime over the course of the last few weeks he had realized the truth. It had never really left him, had only been waiting in the corners of the rooms. He was still cursed.   
And where else should a cursed man go, other than to a witch?

* * *

  
She was sitting in the far corner of the room when he walked through the door, her head bowed over her spinning wheel, her webbed black foot on the treadle. She didn't look up, only lifted a hand to gesture him closer, her words directed at her busy hands. "So, here you are." Joe closed the door behind him and glanced around the room; it looked the same as he remembered, small and cluttered, colorful and strange.  
"Figured you would want these back," he said. He raised his hand to show the spindle and distaff he was carrying, waving them in the air with all the unfeeling insouciance he could muster. _Provoking a witch. Nice, smart_.   
That got her to look up, even as her foot and fingers kept time to the wheel's steady turning. "Don't lie to me, my boy," she snorted, sharp smile, sharp eyes. "If you wish to strike a deal with me, you will have to enter it honestly."  
"You want honesty?" Thank Jesus he could still feel it, fall back on it. Joe let it lift him up and up, an endless wave. "You want to make a deal? Why don't you go to hell." There, that wiped the happily cruel gleam of satisfaction from her face. "You owe me. I won your goddamn game, I killed your sister." The words rolled out of him, rapid and hot with betrayal. "You let her have us, and for what? Bragging rights? To prove which one of you had a better understanding of humans?" He thumped his chest. "We're your fucking family."  
"Mind your tongue," she said, biting chill and black night eking out around her words, "or I will remove it from your mouth." Her smile returned as they glared at each other, the lines on her face doubling with her amusement. "Ah, you believe you wouldn't miss it, is that it? You believe I've already taken it from you. No, Joseph." She returned her attention to the spinning wheel. "You feel this way today, but your life will be long. One day soon you will wake up and remember the joy of it." She motioned towards the nearby empty chair. "Sit. The deal I propose is straightforward." _Hell if I'm gonna sit with you_ , he thought, even as he stomped across the room and did as she commanded. She was, after all, capable of unraveling him with a twist of her fingers. That, and she was his grandmother, and he loved her, Jesus Christ he still loved his evil, immortal grandmother. "Here it is: you will be allowed to remain in my realm for a time, so long as you are willing to give me simple, honest labor in return."  
"Stay with you?" He scoffed, his heart tremoring. How had she known, how could he stand to admit it, that he was running away from the world, from his life? She lifted a knowing brow, but kept her eyes fixed on her task. "What kind of labor?"  
"Spinning, fool. What else is there?" She gestured behind him, toward the brightly colored cabinet. "Check the yellow drawers, or perhaps the green. Something will strike your eye."  
"I haven't agreed to anything."  
"Oh," she retorted, her voice sharp with derision, "you haven't come to me to escape that yawning pit of a future you see before you?"   
"Jesus, Oma." She only laughed, and Joe grumbled under his breath as he stood up and stalked to the cabinet. The yellow and green drawers were filled to bursting with bundled fiber, both natural and dyed. He pawed through them, scowling as the finer fibers caught against the rough skin of his fingers, until he came across a bundle dyed so deeply, unhappily red, it was impossible not to pull it out, lift it to the light. _Like old, dried blood_ , he thought, turning it over in his hand. _Who did this to you?_ He glanced over at his oma; she was watching with him shrewd black eyes. "I can really stay?" He asked, his tone abrupt, his words embarrassing in their desperation.  
"You're my grandson," she said, like that was any kind of answer at all. Neither of them spoke as Joe returned to his seat, as he strung the fiber on the distaff and settled it beneath his arm. It wasn't until they were both spinning, the fibers twisting, as inevitable as the motion of the planets, that she started to hum, and then to sing, her voice cracked and brimming with the knowledge of lifetimes.  
Time was tricky outside of the world, and Joe was, literally, outside of the world. He didn't know where his oma's realm lay in relation to reality as he knew and understood it, and he didn't waste much energy trying to figure it out either. He hadn't come searching for any big cosmic answers. So when his oma stood before her bizarrely modern oven and Joe watched the sunlight outside the window fade and brighten and fade again over the span of time it took her to knead a loaf of bread and set it to rise, he didn't question it. When he stepped outside one day to lemony yellow flowers dotting the grass and the murmur of a slowly waking spring world, and opened the door the next day to thick snow and icicles as long as his arm hanging off the roof, he just shrugged it off. It wasn't any indicator of how much time was or wasn't passing in the real world, his oma had already assured him of that, so who the hell cared?  
Anyways if he had wanted answers, he would have gone to someone other than his oma, who couldn't talk straight to save her own life, let alone anyone else's. She wasn't interested in answering the few questions he bothered to ask, _What am I making, what are you making, how old are you anyway_ , just snapped at him to mind his work, and Joe would inevitably let his questions drop. It was what he had wanted, after all: to not have to speak anymore. To be voiceless and un-alone.   
His oma didn't care whether or not he spoke, although Joe got the feeling that she was enjoying having someone around to listen to all her crazy. He didn't remember her being this level of strange before she had died, or left her human life behind, or whatever the fuck. She told him the same old stories that she always had, only now she peppered in her personal observations, because apparently she had either been involved in or been witness to nearly every fairy tale he knew. If she hadn't been there personally, she knew someone who knew someone who was, and so now Joe had to listen to her complain about obscure gods and goddesses the way he had once listened to her scornfully belittle the neighborhood grocer and the woman across the street who used to do laundry on Tuesdays.   
Now and then she would invite him to try his hand at storytelling, but Joe always shrugged her off. She would tsk at him, not in disappointment, not really, but with something like fond exasperation. "One day soon you will find the urge to speak again," she told him once, her eyes too black, her voice nearly unbearable in its certainty.   
_What, you see the future now?_  
"Bits and pieces," she answered, even though he hadn't spoken out loud. Sometimes she seemed to know what he was thinking, but mostly she left the thoughts he directed her way unacknowledged. "Some events are more certain than others. Fragments, splintered visions. But you will speak again. That day is running towards us with all the surety of the tide."  
_Whatever_. It wasn't that he didn't believe her, he just couldn't see it, couldn't feel it coming the way she did. He still felt the same, locked in and lost, restless and unhappy and nothing left to rail against. So he spun, and she spun, and the days passed. Joe watched the spindle twirl and thought about his mother. He wondered where she was, wondered if he could fix her in his thoughts and step through a door and be by her side. She wouldn't be very happy to see him, knowing his ma. She'd slap his arm and tell him to come at his proper time and shoo him back to the land of the living without letting him get a word in edgewise. "She would indeed," his oma said suddenly. Her expression, when Joe looked up, was as hard and sharp as ever, but her tone was begrudgingly warm. "My son chose a worthy woman to partner with."  
"Yeah," Joe grated out in agreement, and they returned their attention to their spinning.  
"We can't truly die, of course," she said one day, apropos of nothing. Joe cocked a brow, scarcely sparing her a glance. "How does one destroy an idea, eh, tell me that! Human needs birthed us, and I suspect we will exist until the species inevitably consumes itself."  
_So you're saying I didn't kill her_.  
"You struck her a grievous blow, certainly. One that she will not recover from for many years." She smacked her lips, like she was savoring something potent and sweet. "She has retreated to her kingdom to lick her wounds. Reduced, quite reduced."  
_Well, here's hoping I'm dead by the time she gets back topside_.  
"I don't worry for you either way. You're more than a match for any sister of mine."  
_Any?_ That got him to look up. _Just how many sisters do you have?_ But she was back to acting like she couldn't hear his thoughts.  
Then one day, out of nowhere, she suddenly stopped working. Her hands dropped from the wheel, her foot lifted from the treadle. Joe didn't pay much attention at first; she did sometimes step away from her spinning, to bang around in front of her oven or sweep the dust from the corners of the room and out the front door, muttering under her breath all the while. She was always doing something, her gnarled, agile hands never ceasing, her stooped form always in motion. But not now. Now she was just sitting. Joe gave it another breath, then looked up to find her watching him, her face strange and secret. If Joe didn't know any better, he would almost say she looked smug.  
"It seems I have a petitioner," she said, then cackled like some villain straight out of a film reel.  
_A what?_  
"I no longer think of them as worshippers." Like that made anything clearer. "They don't believe in me the way they did in the old days. I'm sought out for favors, or simply by the very curious. This one, however, has come to me with _demands_." She wagged her finger at Joe, as if he had something to do with it. "Bold of him, but very unwise. He will have to be punished."  
_So what, people can just wander in wherever? How the hell does a normal person even get here?_  
"With tenacity, and I suspect in this case, a considerable amount of aid from interested parties."  
_Like another god?_ Beautiful, that was just what he needed, to get caught in the middle of another clash of immortals.  
"I believe I will blind him," she muttered, nearly under her breath, and returned to her spinning. "There. See how he fares with that, eh?" Joe stared at her, waiting for more, but that seemed to be the end of it.  
"He's acclimating well, this petitioner of mine," she said some time later, after the windows had dimmed and then suffused themselves with fresh light. "He will be arriving soon." She lifted a bony finger and thrust it accusingly at Joe. "Mark my words, Joseph. This man is my supplicant, he will treat with me and me alone." There was something good-humored lurking around the corners of her smile, but mostly she was just strange, and palpably powerful, more unlike his oma than she had been since Joe had come to stay with her. "He will not see you, as I have struck him blind, but you must keep still and silent as well while I consider his case."  
_Okay?_ If he were to say it with his voice, he would have drawn the word out, long and questioning. But he had let that go.  
"I will not tolerate disobedience in this matter, not even from you," she said with asperity, still shaking her finger at him. "Now put your work away and come sit beside me while we await our visitor."  
_So he's a visitor now, huh? Thought you said he was some kind of modern day believer_. But she didn't answer him, so Joe rolled his eyes and stood to tuck the spindle back in the cabinet. He pulled his chair to his oma's side and slouched down into it, straightening back up with a scowl when she rapped his knees with the distaff.  
"Is this how I raised you?" She hissed, then flapped her hand at him when he glared at her. "Quiet, he's here." She looked at the door, her expression turning damn near maniacal when the sound of someone fumbling around outside the house reached them. "Come in," she called, sharp and grating as a scavenger bird. "Your hand is nearly at the latch."  
There was a pause at her words, as if the person standing outside his oma's door hadn't expected to hear someone call out to him, or maybe hadn't thought that his presence was already known. _Idiot. You've stepped in it now_. Joe couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for the guy. Anyone who willingly got involved with beings like his grandmother deserved whatever they got. He knocked his fist restlessly against his knee and listened to the faint drag of a hand against the door, watched the knob as it turned. A man walked in, his steps faltering, one arm held out in front of him to ward against unseen objects. He had dark hair, a square jaw -  
There was a sharp hook beneath Joe's sternum, jerking him to life, to motion. He jumped to his feet and was immediately slammed back down. The chair scraped and knocked against the floor with the force of it, rattled in place as Joe fought to break free of the invisible hold that had suddenly enclosed him. He glared at his oma, opened his mouth to shout...but nothing came out. _What the fuck, Oma!_  
_You will obey,_ she said to him, silent, scarcely sparing him a glance. _And mind your foul tongue. I made it clear that you would not be allowed to interfere._  
_Let him go, you hear me?_ Jesus, what had she done to him, what had she done to David's eyes? They were opaque, a murky blue-white. _Fix him and send him back home, now_. He redoubled his efforts against her grip, but it was useless. It took less effort than a thought for her to rob his voice and keep him locked in place.   
David, meanwhile, had stopped moving when Joe had been thrown back down into his seat. But now he took a sliding step forward, placing his feet carefully, his head turned slightly to the side as he listened. "Are you the witch?" He asked, his voice a low, tight rumble. Joe stomach's clenched. David sounded angry, outraged even. The idiot should be terrified, he shouldn't be here, _what the fuck is he doing here?_  
_Let's find out, shall we?_ "And which witch would that be?" His oma said out loud. David shifted in response to her voice, turning to face her more fully.   
"His grandmother," he answered, clipped, as if he couldn't believe he was being asked to qualify his meaning. "Lieb."  
"You mean my grandson Joseph." She looked at Joe out of the corner of her eye and, to his horror, winked salaciously.  
_Oma, what the hell are you playing at?_  
"I'm looking for him," David said. "I think you can take me to him."  
"If my grandson wished to speak with you, he could find you in an instant." She waved a dismissive hand, the gesture entirely lost on David. "So there you are. Take the door behind you. It will see you home."  
"I'm not going anywhere until you take me to Lieb," David said, unshiftable, bone-deep obstinance. "Who the hell do you think you are?" Oh shit, _shit, David, shut the hell up_. "You think because I'm not some ancient, forgotten monster, because I can't shapeshift or place curses on innocent people, that all I'm meant to do is sit passively by and just hope that he comes back? Fuck that. I need to talk to him, and he's going to listen to me, goddamn it."   
_He has a temper after all. This is good, I was concerned that you had given your heart to some dull, prattling thing._  
_Stop, Oma. Please_. But she ignored him, of course.  
"I will not take you to him because you are not worthy of my Joseph." Her voice was hard and cold, power running through it like water over stone. "You failed to protect him. He asked the passages to take him to a place where he would be safe, and they delivered him to you. And what did you do? You left him alone and vulnerable. Your family was so empty, so broken, that my sister was able to slip in and turn them against him. You dare to demand anything of me?"  
"What would you know about family?" David said, brittle and fierce. "After what you let your sister do to him. You knew what was happening?" His voice picked up strength, he threw an accusing arm out toward the corner of the room where Joe and his oma were sitting. "Where were you, then? You didn't have to watch him work, you didn't watch him swallow pain and his own fucking voice. You sat here, wherever the hell here is, and it barely mattered to you, did it, what was happening to all the people who were caught in your curse." He bit his last words off with an audible clicking of teeth, his chest heaving, all but shaking with fury.  
"Very well," his oma said, with all the unflinching intent of a cat preparing to rip the wings off a caught bird, "tell me."  
"What?"  
"Tell me your story. Tell me how my curse caught you, and if you tell it honestly, and well, then I will allow my grandson to come to you."  
"You know where he is." David took another step forward, urgent and fumbling.  
"I do."  
David's hands rose, his fingers pressing tight against his eyes, then moving up to drag their way through his hair. "Christ," he muttered shakily, then, "Okay, yes. I agree. What do you want to know?"  
She snorted. "I told you. I want your story."  
"Well." David hesitated, shifting his weight uneasily back and forth. He cleared his throat. "When I first met Lieb, I thought -"  
"No, no, not like that," she cut in angrily. "I chose the right time to die, if this is what storytelling has become." She harrumphed, grating and low in her throat, when David only answered by gaping blankly in her general direction. "Start again, and tell it properly. Tell it well."  
David stood before them, silent, a torrent of swift, half-felt emotions working their way across his face. Joe sat scarcely breathing beside his oma, his fingers clenched along the edge of his seat. He wanted to shout, he wanted to go to David. He wanted to duck through the door and disappear. He watched David gather himself, watched him square his shoulders and press his tongue against his cheek, his hand coming up to rub at his jaw the way he always did right before he launched into a story. David took a deep breath in, his chest rising with it, then sighed it back out.  
"Once upon a time," he said.


	19. Chapter 19

_Once upon a time, a man was lost at sea._  
_He knew his way to shore, was a capable sailor, but the truth was incontrovertible. The man was lost, wandering._  
_He hadn't always been this way. Years ago, he had been a man of conviction, certainty in his decisions and a firm belief in good and evil. But that had been before the War. His War, where he learned firsthand the many pitfalls and pockmarks of the human soul, where he gained and lost brothers with staggering speed, where he learned that he was a coward, that society was a horribly fragile construct easily forgotten, easily destroyed. When he finally returned home, it was with these truths heavy on his tongue. But who could he tell? Not his family, who only wanted their son back as he had been before the War. Not his childhood friends, who only appreciated the truth when it came couched in tones of bored irony. No, he spoke a harder language now, and the old words were foreign to him._  
_And so he found himself alone, churning on these new words that couldn't be shared. Each day he found himself further adrift. Until the day, under circumstances strange and, as he was later to learn, magical, he met another who also spoke this new language. His name, he told the man lost at sea, was Lieb._  
_Unlike the lost man, Lieb spoke their shared language fluently, completely. He spoke it with his hands, with his eyes and his mobile lips, with the whole of his body. With a curl of his mouth and a motion of his arm he told the lost man when he was angry, happy, exhausted, amused. He often refused to answer when asked a question, but he never lied. His scarred hands reminded the lost man that to live was to struggle, the burst of his smile reminded him that fellowship was pain's most precious balm. They became friends, then something closer than friends._  
_In spite of all this, it was clear to the lost man that Lieb had a secret, inscrutable purpose, a larger goal that he would not share, kept behind shielding eyes and a sword-point scowl. It was wrapped up with his strange work, with the way his expression would sometimes shutter and darken, the way his hands would fist in his lap or along the table without him seeming to realize. The lost man watched him, and longed for peace, for both Lieb and himself. He began to nurture the hope that they might find it in each other._  
_Then he learned the truth. He learned that his friend had a home, a family that he had been fighting unceasingly to return to. He learned that the world as he knew it, half-ruined and teeming with life and horror, was more richly incomprehensible than he he had previously imagined. He learned what it meant to be freed from a curse._  
_Because that was what the lost man had been suffering under. War, after all, is a being greater than nations, humanity's most monstrous god. No man can march beneath its shadow and walk free. The lost man returned from his War with many curses settled over him, curses that drove him further and further out to sea. And then Lieb came, and brought him to shore._  
_That is what really happened. I didn't rescue Lieb. If Lieb had never met me, he still would have completed the task set before him and freed his family, because that is who Lieb is. And I wasn't enveloped in his curse, the curse didn't ruin me. I was lost, and Lieb grabbed me with hands that never faltered or flinched away from pain, and brought me back home. There are things I should have told him, things that only became clear to me after he was gone. I need to find him, to say to him, I lost my family long ago, and now I am finding them again, and that is because you refused to let me turn away. I need to say to him, when we spoke, from the very beginning, it was my heart to your heart. Words, what came for us before and what might come to us in the future, all of that was outside of the space between us. We were enclosed and understood within it. I need to say to him, do you dream of me the way I do of you? Is your head, like mine, heavy and weighted with conversations you cannot have with anyone else? Is your chest also brimming with words? Tell me if this is happening to you, so that I can tell you how I've missed you. I walk now with a terrible feeling as if something has been cut out of me, as if I've lost half my vision. I would tell him, I would say -_  
_But those words are for him, not you. You asked me how the curse effected me; my answer is that it gave me back my life. It pains me at times that this cruel action brought me so much, and took so much more from Lieb. But I'll never regret that I met him, and hopefully helped him in some small way. So. You've had your story. I don't know it it was told well, but it was told honestly. Now will you take me to Lieb?_

* * *

  
_Oma_. Joe's fingers were shaking, hell, his everything was shaking. _Oma, I swear to God, let me up right now_.  
From the moment David began telling his story, Joe's oma hadn't moved, not even to blink or breathe, not, Joe supposed, that she actually needed to do either of those things. She sat as still and impervious as any statue of justice, her gaze locked on David. Now, finally, she turned to look at Joe, strangely impassive.  
_What will you do, should I release you? Intercede on your man's behalf?_  
_My - my man?_ Who knew it was possible to sputter in your own head? He gaped at his grandmother, but all she did was stare steadily back. _He's not...that's not the goddamn point. I don't need to intercede for shit, he hasn't done anything wrong_.  
_Not yours, hmm? Well, he's a trespasser at any rate._  
_You said he was a petitioner._  
_One does not preclude the other. I will ask you only once more, Joseph. What will you do when I release your body and your voice?_  
"Well?" David's voice was loud, openly impatient, cracking against the silent sparring of wills that Joe and his oma were caught up in. He was glaring sightlessly at the corner of the room where they were sitting. Joe's heart, already tripping in his chest, began pounding even more rapidly. His oma only cocked a brow at him, the lines of her face rewriting themselves.   
_I'm gonna tear these walls down around your old head until you fix his vision, is what. Then I'm gonna get him the hell out of here._  
_Aw, so you are ready to return to the world, are you?_  
He didn't look at David. Not yet. _I gotta be. I've got people there who need me. I need them._  
She stared at him, stared into him, her eyes dark and honed sharp with the memory of centuries. Joe steeled himself to not flinch away from that gaze.  
_Well._ Her thoughts were a gruff concession. _I suppose you're human after all. Spinning won't mend you. Only living_. She waved her hand dismissively, and Joe felt the weight of her power lift away from him. _Take him back to the world. Keep him or don't, the choice is your own. But I like this man of yours, my boy. You should lay claim to him_.  
_That's none of your business_. He stood up, but didn't move away, hovered over her shoulder instead. She ignored him, turning to address David.  
"You will be returned to the world you traveled from. Your sight will be restored when you have left my realm."  
"The deal was that you would take me to Lieb," David bit out, folding his arms mulishly against his chest, like the stubborn ass he was.  
"You should take careful note of every word when dealing with a being as ancient as I, boy. I said I would allow him to come to you. If he so desires."  
"But that." David spluttered. "He could have come to me at any time!" His voice dropped, doubt and concern creeping in. "Couldn't he?" She ignored him, turning her attention to Joe instead.   
_Give me your hand, Joseph_. He did as she told him, summoning a half- scowl when she turned his palm over and ran her thumbs along the twisting scars. Her skin was papery, the bones and joints beneath prominently swollen. They felt just the same as when she had been alive. _These are good hands. Hands that bear the mark of their struggles. You did well_. She released him. _Now, hand me my distaff and go._  
Joe couldn't think of a single damn thing to say in answer. So he handed her the distaff, and didn't pull away when she patted his hand one last time.   
David, the beautiful idiot, was still talking away behind him. "Have you done something to him? Your own grandson? My God, if you've been keeping him from - from his family, I'll - "  
_Shut up, you wanna get cursed again?_ Joe took a step, then another, another, and he was next to David again, his hand coming up to grab him by the elbow. David's breath caught, his half-formed threats coming to an abrupt halt. Joe stepped closer, so he could wrap his other hand around the back of David's neck. He squeezed, he shook him gently.  
"Lieb," David breathed out, still not moving. Joe tugged with his hands. _Let's go, babe_. David obeyed, following his hands, letting Joe turn him around and guide him to the door. His oma was lost to sight, obscured by David's shoulders, but Joe wouldn't have been able to look away from David anyways, not right now, not with all this ridiculous bullshit, this anticipation zipping and humming away beneath his skin, making every nerve light up like pain. He set his hand to the latch of the door, and David's face was so close and Joe still couldn't speak, but he knew one sure way to make certain David wouldn't think of anything else but him as Joe took him through the door.  
He pulled David's mouth down and kissed him.  
David's hands flew to his waist, David gasped against his mouth. Somewhere far away and growing further distant, Joe thought her heard his oma's sharp cackle of a laugh. But he was pulling David through the doorway, and all he could think was _home_ and _David_. He would leave the details to the passageways. They hadn't let him down yet.   
When they stepped through, Joe didn't bother checking to see where they had ended up. He was too busy snaking his arm past David to close the door behind them, and then crowding close to back David up against it, and reaching up to get a hold of David by his ear and the hinge of his jaw so he could kiss him harder, more insistently. Fuck, he needed...David was just now catching up with him, his hands tightening and sliding down in headying increments, the push and pull of lips, hips, chests, there was something ripping up through him...  
Joe moaned, flagrantly loud against the relative silence of the room. The shock of it was enough to have them both jerking back, David's head knocking against he door, his eyes flying open. He stared at Joe, wide-eyed.  
Joe loosened his grip on David's ear, shifted his thumb over to rub an orbiting question along his brow, his cheekbone. _You can see me, right?_ David nodded, almost frantically, and reached up to catch Joe's hand, holding it in place against his cheek and temple.  
"You were there?" He asked, a little accusatory, but mostly breathless. "You know?"  
_It wasn't my idea, I swear_ , Joe wanted to say. What guy wanted to be sitting beside his creepy-ass grandmother while the man he loved poured his goddamn heart all over the floor in front of them? Talk about uncomfortable. He buried his free hand in David's hair, gripping too hard so that David's mouth fell open, and fuck that was hot, David was so fucking hot. Joe tipped David's head to the side and bit his jaw. David made a choking sound, and Joe followed it down to suck a hard kiss along his throat, grinning as the noises David was making became more garbled.  
"Heya, David," he spoke into his skin.  
"You bastard," David said. "You asshole." He used his hold on Joe's waist to pull him against him, and they both groaned simultaneously when their hips ground together. "Don't do that again," David gasped, as he pressed his face against the top of Joe's head and rocked them in a sloppy, desperate rhythm, his voice rumbling away beneath Joe's mouth. "You're fucking impossible to find. Do you know what I had to do to find you?"  
"I've got an idea." Joe nosed his way back up and kissed him again, bringing both his hands around to cup David's face and hold him in place, and the kiss was biting and demanding, but his grip was gentle, and it was all in an attempt to say, _I'm glad you found me, I think I was waiting for you to come find me_ , and he hoped, Jesus Christ he hoped David understood him.  
"God, Lieb, oh my God," David said in a chant broken by rough kisses. "God, I love you, you know I love you, tell me you know."  
"You really never shut up, do you." He yanked him away from the door, both of them shuffling and tripping their way towards the bed, which...huh, how had he known there would be a bed there...but he had more gripping concerns at the moment, like tangling their legs together so that they collapsed in tandem on top of the mattress, and the overwhelming feeling of David beneath him. "I love you," he said, roughly, poorly, because talking was still a largely forgotten skill but he couldn't stand to not say it. Then everything was David, David, David. His open mouth, hot and demanding, the sprawl of his body, the splay of his hands as they traveled along Joe. The low sounds he made, the way he moved in response to every little command Joe gave with his hands, because they were doing it again, speaking to each other the way they had from the beginning. David grew more urgent each time Joe moaned or muttered needy curses, like hearing him was the wildest turn-on he had ever experienced, and that really got Joe going, feeling his hands tighten or his pace increase, seeing his eyes get darker with all the goddamn heat between them. And Joe was losing it, David was driving him crazy, absolutely fucking crazy, until finally, when they were scrabbling at the edge of reason and he was only hazily aware of being in David's lap, their limbs slicked with sweat so that their movements grew increasingly frantic and off-time, all Joe could do was drop his head against David's shoulder and say, "Shit, oh shit, holy shit," until even that last bit of thought was lost.  
"Holy shit," he said again, after he finally pushed David away, breaking off a lazily open-mouthed kiss, messily sated. They lay side by side, catching their breath, and David looked good like this too, a little red in the face, sporting a loose, dazed grin and absolutely nothing else. Joe kissed him again, then shoved him away and flopped over onto his back. The room was stuffy with heat, sweltering enough that he figured it must be the height of summer. Joe hoped suddenly that he had only been gone for a couple months instead of more than a year. He turned his head to the side to glare at the bright sunlight pouring in through a set of large windows.  
Very familiar windows.  
Joe sat up and looked around.  
It made sense, he supposed. Where else would the passageways have taken them, the two of them together, except back here? This attic room where he and David had spent so much time.   
"Hey." He turned back to David, shoving his shoulder to get his attention.  
"Hmm?" David answered sleepily, barely bothering to open his eyes. Joe gestured to the room, the door they had appeared through. He motioned at David, mimed eating, sleeping. _Are you still living here?_ "What?" Now David was looking around too, his brow creasing, his mouth falling open. He threw himself upright. "Fuck, Lieb!" He hissed. "We sold this house over a month ago, a new family lives here now!" He sprang from the bed and started snatching up his hastily discarded clothing.  
Joe couldn't help the laughter that burst out of him at that, humor and happiness and more than a little hysteria thrown all together. It was uncontrollable; it was the giddying difference between running and sprinting. He slipped sideways, bracing himself up on an elbow, and laughed and laughed, way too loud. The first time he had laughed in more than five years, an unbelievable excess of sound.  
"Shut up," David whisper-shouted, picking up Joe's pants and slinging them at his head. "Get dressed and get us out of here."  
"No one's here," Joe said between heaving, hiccupping gulps of breath. "They would've heard us already if they were." But David clearly didn't find it funny, so Joe sat up and shoved his pants back on.   
"God, oh God," David said. He threw his shirt on and crossed to the window, peering out anxiously as he fumbled with the buttons. "There's a car in the driveway, Lieb."  
"Calm down, Jesus. Where the hell are my boots?" He shrugged his shirt back on and grunted when David handed him his shoes. "You kick everyone out of bed this quick?" He asked teasingly, but David only huffed in answer. Joe stood up and walked to the door. He took David by the elbow, but didn't touch the knob, turning around instead to pull him in close. David glared down at him, flushed and impatient. "Where to, sweetheart?"   
"I don't care, oh my God," David bit out.  
"Alright, alright." He maneuvered David until he had him the way he wanted; holding on to Joe's shoulder, a light, friendly touch, the sort that no one noticed unless they were looking for something. "Just think about me, you think you can handle that?"  
"I know better than to answer that," David said dryly. Joe snorted, and opened the door.  
David dropped his hand from Joe's shoulder as they stepped through the doorway, frowning in surprise as he glanced around the room. Joe ignored him, lifting two fingers to the barkeep and nodding when he gestured them towards a table. He motioned to David with his head and hands, _Get a move on_ , and they walked together to the open table the barkeep had indicated.   
"Why are we here?" David asked, pulling out his chair and looking warily around the restaurant.   
_I'm hungry, why do you think?_ Joe spun the paper menu around, tapping the chop suey advertisement at the bottom. David stared at the menu for one breath, two, three. His mouth curved up in that slow-motion grin, his eyes lifting to meet Joe's.  
"Is this a second date? At the same place as our first one?" He leaned back, smug delight in the corners of his lips and eyes. "Lieb, I never imagined you were so sentimental."  
"Well, hello!" The waitress said brightly, appearing at their elbows. She was smiling at David. "I didn't know you were back in town. Are you here with the family?"  
"No, just my friend," David answered, glancing at Joe. She followed his gaze.  
"You look familiar. You've been here before, haven't you?"  
"Yeah, that's right." He held out his hand, winking at her when she shook it. "Joe Liebgott, good to meet you." He could feel David watching him, and more, listening, and it was making his stomach swoop.   
"Mindy," she said warmly. "Well, what can I get you gentlemen?"  
"Chop suey for the both of us," Joe answered before David could speak. "And a Coca-Cola. You want a Coca-Cola, Web?"  
"Uh. Sure."  
"Make that two." Joe looked at David when she walked away, cocking an eyebrow at him in challenge. _What?_ David just shook his head. Joe pointed to David, then himself. He set his fingers on the table, moving one around frenetically while the other stayed in place. He looked back up at David. _How'd you find me?_  
David stared at his hands for a long moment. "I wanted to look for you sooner, but I had - Anne and John -" he stopped, lifting his hands in frustration. "There were some things I needed to take care of first." Joe nodded his understanding. "Once I was able to get away, I went to Oakland to find you, but by then you were already gone. All anyone could tell me was that your father had sold his business and left town. One of your neighbors gave me your brother-in-law's address, but he was gone too." He glared at Joe, then sighed heavily. "I finally tracked down his mother. She didn't want to tell me anything, but I managed to convince her that I was a friend of the family. She gave me an address in New York." He leaned forward, his hand coming down to thump angrily against the table. "My family lives in New York, asshole. You moved to the same city as me, and you didn't bother to let me know."  
_Hey, I didn't move there_. In all honesty, the fact that David and his family lived in New York hadn't really registered as a matter of any importance to Joe when his brother and sisters chose it as their destination. It was a big city, and Joe doubted that he and David would have been frequenting the same neighborhoods.   
"So, I found your family, only to find out that you weren't with them, and that they hadn't seen you for months. But Al, she told me that she thought she knew where you had gone. She wasn't very keen on the idea of taking me to you. She's obstinate, like you." Joe grinned at that and David grinned back, albeit grudgingly. "I don't know what eventually convinced her," he said dryly. "Maybe she just didn't want to move her entire family to a new city to get away from me." He shrugged. "She brought me to...that place. Wherever it was." Joe pointed to his eyes, then to David. _What did you see?_ David let out a gusting breath. "I don't know. I was in a forest, all these spruce and fir trees. Al told me she would come with me, but she was gone when I followed her through the door. There was this path through the trees, and I started to follow it, and then-" he grimaced and motioned towards his own face. "I just kept walking. My feet never left the path, as far as I could tell. I don't know how long I walked. It felt like forever." Something moved across his face then, a disquiet that Joe immediately wanted to shake away. "It was so dark. I kept hearing these sounds from either side of the path, whispered voices, something being dragged across the grass." He breathed in, then back out heavily. "And then there was a door in front of me."  
Mindy came by with their drinks, and they looked away from each other to thank her more lavishly than the delivery of a couple of sodas warranted, shifting any lurking suspicion away with small talk. Joe used to be good at this kind of thing; he felt like maybe it was coming back to him, the art of deflecting and redirecting with a joke and a raised voice. When she walked off with a jaunt to her step that made Joe think they had pulled it off, he turned back and, daringly, slid his hand across the table until it was resting next to David's. He had an almost maddening desire to pick it up, kiss and bite each digit. _Later_ , he promised himself. When they were alone.  
"Where are we going now?" David asked, low and intimate, almost like he had read Joe's thoughts, but of course that was impossible. He was just reading his body, like he always had.  
"New York, to start." He drank his soda, tapped his fingers along the table. "Figure you oughta meet my family."  
"I've already met them."  
"Yeah, but I didn't introduce you, so it doesn't count." _This guy saved me_ , he would tell them. _I was losing it, losing myself, and he saved me_. David was grinning again, huge and dopey and a little bashful.  
"In that case, maybe I can reintroduce you to my family too," he said. Hell if Joe was gonna start making eyes at the guy like the sun shone out of his ass, so he pressed his smile down as much he as he was able and stared out the window instead. It was the height of the summer influx, the way the island had been when Joe first arrived. The street outside was busy with passing cars and pedestrians. Inside the restaurant, he and David talked to each other under the background babble of the other diners.   
"Yeah," he said gruffly, "You should do that." He wanted to ask him about John. He wanted to ask him about a lot of shit, but he figured that should wait until they were really alone. He slurped his soda, noisy and obnoxious, and David got that new, fascinated look that he always seemed to get whenever Joe spoke or did something intentionally loud. "After that, I'm thinking we should hit the road."  
"The road?" David repeated in confusion.  
"Ever heard of a road trip? I spent five years bouncing all over the damn country, but that wasn't any fun." Beneath the table, he slid his foot forward until it bumped against David's. "We should see some sights. I figure we've earned it."  
"That." David looked down, his hands and face dropping out of sight. All Joe could make out was a shock of dark hair and the outline of his jaw, tensely set, almost angry. "Let's do that," David finally said, his voice tightly controlled.   
Joe knocked their knees together. _David?_  
David pushed back. _Lieb_.   
So that was alright.  
Mindy brought their chop suey out, and David picked at it at first, openly doubtful, slowly eating with more enthusiasm as he went along. Joe smirked to himself and watched him with half an eye as he dug in to his own huge helping.  
"So," David said in between bites. Joe didn't look at him, just lifted a brow and tipped his head. _Yeah?_ "Would you tell me about it?" Joe made an impatient gesture with his hand. _Tell you about what?_ "The curse. I still don't understand it. Or how you managed to evade a goddess for five years." He was speaking lightly, obviously trying for a neutral tone that Joe would feel comfortable responding to. But David was shit at hiding what he was actually thinking; Joe could see his intense curiosity in the drum of his fingers against the table, the way he shifted forward in his seat. He hunched over his plate and stuffed a heaping forkful of rice into his mouth, considering.   
He would probably end up telling David all about it, eventually. Some day. He could almost see it now, strange and painful conversations scattered across long car rides and dark motel rooms, stories dropped clumsily down on roadside diner tables or sticky bar counters. It wouldn't happen all at once, and it wouldn't just be him; David had plenty stories of his own that he had yet to tell. Weeks or months from now, the road would lose its appeal and they would have to pick what they wanted next. Maybe they would come back here, and David would fish and Joe would open a shop like his old man. Maybe they would go to New York, and David would write and Joe would cabby people around the city. Maybe they would go somewhere completely new. But wherever they ended up, they would still be telling stories, keeping the spindle and their world in motion with voices and hands. It seemed impossible, but Joe knew better than anyone how endless the stories were, and anyway, all David was really asking him to do, in this moment, was pick one.  
Just one.  
"Okay," he said, gesturing at David's plate with his fork. "But hurry up, I wanna hit the road." He slouched back in his chair and watched David eat. David looked steadily back, and Joe questioned for just a moment how he was possible, this guy that the doorway or his oma or the fucking universe had brought him to. He brushed it away; some shit didn't have answers, some shit you just had to live in wonder of. Joe cleared his throat.  
"So I'm running from this witch, right? I'm jumping through a door, and I don't much care where I end up, so long as it's far away. Well, hell of thing, I jump through, and fall straight into the ocean. And there's this boat in the distance..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


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